


I inherited hunger, popped jaw, all teeth

by dwellingondreams



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Casterly Rock, Child Abuse, Childbirth, Childhood Trauma, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Forced Marriage, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Sandor's Sister Lives, Slow Burn, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-03-09 15:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13484349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwellingondreams/pseuds/dwellingondreams
Summary: (and Father taught me how to feast) - Kemi AlabIt was barely a few strides with her skinny arm linked with her father’s to reach the crude altar. There were few prayers and no songs. The gaunt candles kept threatening to extinguish, as the wooden hall was not much warmer than the cold night outside. Delora had no maiden’s cloak, just a plain black wool cloak she had always worn in the winter, slightly frayed at the edges. When her father removed it from her shoulders, his hands shook. She had never known his hands to shake before.





	1. Chapter 1

Delora’s birth was a cruel, bloody thing. There was something inherently twisted in it, in that after birthing two of the largest babes ever born in all of Westeros, it was the much smaller Delora that proved to be too much for Beatrise Clegane. Perhaps it was that the woman’s body could not take birthing another child, after her two enormous sons and several stillbirths in between. Perhaps it was simply fate. The will of the gods, to take the woman mere hours after the birth of her final child, and sole daughter.

Ivor Clegane was not a man for white lies, and he told none to his daughter. “Your birth killed your mother,” he’d grunted, when she finally worked up the nerve to ask, at age six, where her mama was. “S’not your fault, girl. Just how things are, sometimes.” He took a slow sip of mead, face blank, eyes flat and dark. He was long in the face and grey of beard; the years had always weighed heavily upon him.

And then he refused to say anymore on the matter, and Delora returned to her stew, fighting the anger brewing in her gut. It wasn’t fair. Her brothers had gotten a mother, even if it was only for a little while- Gregor was eleven years her elder, and Sandor five. But she had none. She was the only Clegane woman left; her father had been the only one of his siblings to live to adulthood. 

Father was not a cruel man, but he was not kind either. Delora learned quickly that she’d get no tender embraces or even affectionate pats from Ser Ivor Clegane. If he was pleased with her, she might get an approving nod or tight, closed-mouthed smile. If he was displeased with her, she’d get a barked reprimand or a clout round the head, and be grateful she was a girl and could not be beaten like her brothers.

Ivor Clegane was a landed knight, son of a landed knight who’d been a kennel master nearly all his life. He’d inherited Clegane’s Keep from his father at the young age of eleven. He was the first Clegane to learn to read and write, the first Clegane to be addressed as ‘Master’, then ‘Ser’ after he was knighted at eighteen. He was the first Clegane to marry- if not a proper lady, then a merchant of middling wealth’s second daughter, a woman who would not so much have looked at a kennel boy.

He did not know how to raise… if not highborn, then certainly not lowborn, children. He did not know how to run a keep or manage the smallfolk in the surrounding village, and relied heavily on his wife until her death at aged thirty. Afterwards, he struggled. The matters brought to him were never very severe, but Ivor was not a man well equipped to lead. His rulings were often heavy handed, although he always tried to be fair. 

There was a maester, Andon, and a septa, Ines. There was no septon; one came several times a year to the worn little sept that was no more than a wooden shack in the village. The household employed few servants; Ivor was a frugal man, and furthermore, as the years went on most refused to send their sons or daughters to work in a household with Gregor Clegane under its roof.

Delora learned quickly to avoid her eldest brother. She was lucky, being born eleven years after him. Gregor had little interest in a squalling babe, and by the time she was old enough to escape the watchful eye of her nursemaid, Gregor had become a squire and was away from home for long periods of time. But when he was home, it was a well known fact that Ivor had very little control over the boy, who was as tall as his father, himself a big, burly man, by the time he was twelve. 

It was doubtful that Ivor’s main tactic of discipline; beatings and hard labor, had ever done much to daunt Gregor in the first place. But Delora only knew Gregor as a frightening shadow that lurked around the edges of her childhood. She remembered vividly the first time she had ever really met her brother. She was perhaps four, playing quietly in the hall in the late afternoon, when it was empty of servants. Delora was not a quiet child by nature, but by habit, for being unnoticed kept her safe. She was a skinny wraith of a girl with lank dark hair and her mother’s hazel-flecked brown eyes, pale skin covered in freckles.

She did not look up when she heard boots clicking across the stone floor, assuming it to be her father or one of the men at arms the keep kept. Then she heard his voice, and froze, huddled over her rag dolls. She did not look at him until he was mere feet from her, and when she did, she instinctively scurried backwards in alarm until her back collided with a table leg.

Gregor laughed. It was not the amused chuckle of an older brother. It was the hard-edged snigger of a cruel boy with a man’s rough face, and a man’s big hands and feet. “Do you know me, little sister?” he asked her, but it was more of a jeer. “Who am I?” 

To hear her name in his mouth made her curl her small knees up to her chest. She stared at him, eyes unblinking in her sharp, freckled face. He took a step closer. “Gregor,” she said, and resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands or her hair. “My… my big brother.”

That seemed to please him. He crouched down. He was close enough to touch her, if he reached out. His arms were so long, and already sinewed with muscle, even at fifteen. “And you, my little sister.” It should have been warm. But she had never heard words colder, or more full of mockery. His eyes were angry. Delora was used to anger, even at that early age. But this was different. This anger didn’t fade or change. It was simply there.

Delora did what any pup would in the face of a potentially rabid beast; she scrambled backwards, under the table, trying to escape his grasp. His meaty fingers closed around the back of her brown dress like a hunter’s trap, and she squealed in panic as he dragged her back out from under the table. “You shouldn’t be rude to your big brother, Delora,” he growled as she squirmed and wriggled frantically to get away from his inescapable grip. “One day I’ll be your master.”

Several things happened all at once; the back of Delora’s thin dress tore and she immediately stumbled to her feet and darted across the hall with only the speed a terrified child can posses, and as Gregor rose ever so slowly to give pursuit, as if he was going to relish the chase, the doors to the hall burst open, letting in a small patch of faint sunlight. Ivor Clegane stalked into the hall, Sandor, heaving as if he’d just run a great distance, just behind him. Delora had no memories of her other brother before his burns, and his face had never troubled her. Gregor’s countenance inspired much more fear in her. She ran to Sandor, gasping and sobbing without tears, and clung to his legs. He easily picked her up, looking more like a lad of twelve or thirteen than his actual age, which was all of nine years. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” Ivor demanded as Gregor straightened up with a scowl. “The girl’s hysterical, Gregor.”

“I was just playing with her, Father,” he sneered. “She’s a jumpy little thing.”

Delora buried her face in Sandor’s sunburnt neck; he smelled like horse and dog and leather, all things that comforted her. Her heaving sobs stilled, and she was silent again, confident that the great beast that was Gregor could not harm her now that Sandor, who had always been her protector, was here. 

Ivor stared at his son, and Gregor stared back, a lazy smile on his face that said, ‘Well? What are you doing to do?’. He was a good head taller than his father already. Ivor did nothing, only said, in a voice of forced calm, “You’re near a man grown. You’ve no business playing with little children. You should be off, earning your knighthood.”

“I ride out at dusk,” Gregor’s ugly, smug smile faded, but only slightly. “I prefer the open road to spending another night in this shithole.”

He strode past his father and siblings. Delora did not want to look at him, but was too scared to take her eyes off of him. “Goodbye brother,” he addressed Sandor over his muscled shoulder, his tone deceptively casual. “Goodbye, sister.”

When he was gone Sandor carried her out of the hall and up to her room. He was shaking with barely suppressed anger when he set her down, his large hands on her slight shoulders. “Delora,” he said, “Listen to me.”

She looked at him, rubbing at her dripping nose with one small fist. “San?”

“Never go near Gregor again. If you see him, you run away or hide, or scream as loud as you can until someone comes running.”

“But,” Delora sniffed, “He’s my brother. Like you.”

“No.” Sandor shook her, albeit gently- a good shake from him, with his strength, could have given her whiplash. “Not like me! He’s- he’s a bad man. A very bad man. And if he can, he will hurt you. So don’t you ever give him the chance. Do you understand?”

She nodded so he would not shake her again, and he let go of her. “Stay in your room until Septa brings you to dinner,” he said, and closed the door behind him. It was only then that Delora realized she’d left her doll in the hall, and she sulked for the rest of the afternoon until Sandor gave it to her after dinner. A dinner that Gregor was notably absent from, and the air of relief amongst the servants, and even more-so, amongst the family, was palpable. 

Two years later Gregor was knighted, and then the rebellion against the Crown began and Sandor was away too, off with Lord Tywin’s men. Delora was a lonely, solitary child. She was not so highborn as to gather friends through mere influence, but now lowborn enough to join the games of the village children. They were afraid to play with her, for fear of her menacing brothers, or they simply laughed and called her Dogfaced Delora. It was not inaccurate, as Delora’s only true friends were her dogs. 

She had two fine, sleek black hunting hounds that were her constant companions. They slept beside her bed at night and ate their meals at her feet. She called the slightly leaner one Tybolt, and the other Gerold, after the great Lannister lords. Loyalty to the Lannisters was bred into the Cleganes, few as they were; all they had, they owed to Tytos Lannister, and the continued acknowledgement of the new lord, Tywin Lannister.

She was not happy, but she was not miserable either. Delora didn't know whether her life could be better, but she knew it could certainly be worse. She had a warm bed in a tower room to sleep in at night, behind the secure, if crude, walls of the keep. She'd never gone hungry or cold, and she had plenty of dresses to wear, although they were not so fine as those of other young ladies and she rarely wore them. Her father grew something approaching fond of her as she aged from a little girl into something approaching a young woman, and often took her hunting, or riding through their meager lands. He did not force embroidery or dancing upon her, and only insisted she wear dresses and comb her hair at meals and in the sight of their crofters. She missed Sandor, who, although he had never been sweet or soft with her, had always let her ride in front of him on his horse and had taught her how to skin a rabbit, and dreaded Gregor’s return. 

Delora could safely say, looking back on her young life, that her childhood did not truly end until after they’d crowned the Baratheon king, when the Lannister party came to their gates.


	2. Chapter 2

Delora was ten when the Lannister party arrived at their gates. No raven had been sent announcing their coming, and it was unusual for guests to arrive so late in the day. It was a crisp winter evening, and the sky a peculiar shade of burnt orange as the sun set. Delora saw the riders from her tower window, and stood very still, gazing down at horses moving at a brisk pace through the little village below. Several people came out of their homes, but the riders did not stop. 

They had no banners, but Tywin Lannister’s crimson armor was unmistakable, even from a great distance. He looked like a bloody smear, with a gold smudge following closely behind. The Kingslayer was with him as well. Delora began to feel the slow, dreadful fear that a rabbit feels, knowing a fox has caught its scent. She was not a stupid girl; nothing good could come out of an unannounced visit from the Warden of the West. The Lannisters had given them everything, and could strip it away just as easily.

Now there was a clamor from the few men stationed at the walls of the keep, and Delora jerked away from the window as Septa Ines hurried into the room. Ines was a small, meek looking woman in her forties, with pale, powdery skin and large dark eyes. She reminded Delora of a frightened lamb, although she was more formidable than she appeared; a weak woman would not have lasted long with the Clegane family. Neither Gregor nor Sandor had grown up with the septa; she had only been brought into the household after Delora’s birth and her mother’s death.

She was the closest thing to a mother that Delora had, and she loved the woman fiercely, even if Ines regularly despaired over her. Delora was an obstinate girl, and not terribly inclined towards her lessons, although her septa begrudgingly admitted that she was quite good with figures and would run an efficient household someday. Delora had not been sheltered from chores. She had hands as rough and calloused as any common girl’s, and to her it seemed that the only difference between her and the village girls was that she could read and write, and that she slept in a stone tower and had more dresses. 

“Dress quickly,” Septa snapped now. “Gods be good, child, you look half a beggar, while Lord Lannister rides through your gates!”

She dragged in a startled maid to comb through Delora’s thick, tangled mane of hair while helping the girl into her finest dress, in Clegane yellow with puffed sleeves and black stitching along the bottom of the skirt. 

“That hurts!” Delora snapped as the maid worked at a particularly bad knot, and made to slap the comb from the girl’s hands, before Septa swiftly gathered her hair back away from her face with a faded ribbon. 

“There,” she huffed, “We’ve no time to braid it. Are your hands clean?” She inspected Delora’s nails, which needed to be cut, as the sound of footsteps echoed up the stairs.

To his credit, Ivor Clegane did not look afraid. However, to call him calm would have been a gross overstatement. The expression on his face was that of a wary dog expecting a kick from an irate master. Delora was alarmed by that, even more so than she had been by the sight of the Lannisters riding up to the keep. 

“Lord Tywin has paid us a great honor with his visit,” he said gruffly. “You will curtsy and then not a sound from you for the rest of the night, do you hear?”

“Yes Father,” Delora frowned, and then took his stiffly proffered arm.

She had been expecting to see Lord Tywin, whom she had been presented to as a child of two or three when he had made a brief stop at their keep on some business or other. And she had been expecting to see the Kingslayer, who was truly as handsome and shining in his golden armor as everyone said, but looked more boy than man. He was smiling slightly, but it looked forced and did not reach his eyes. She was not expecting to see her brothers, or the Imp. 

Gregor was in boiled leather and a mail shirt, a queer smile on his face as he took in the sight of his father and sister. The sword on his back looked to be as tall as most men. He was even bigger than Delora remembered, a beast in truth now, but his cold, blank eyes and hard face were the same, although his hair was trimmed shorter than she had last recalled it. Gregor was standing just behind the Kingslayer, a completely different expression on his scarred face. Most people would have mistook his scowl for one of anger, but Delora knew her brother better than that. He was afraid. He was afraid of Gregor, afraid of Lord Tywin, and afraid to be home. 

And then there was the Imp, whom Delora had never seen before, but she knew the shrunken boy could only be Lord Tywin’s greatest shame, the dwarf son. At first glance one might have mistaken him for a little child, but his face was that of a boy a few years older than herself, with a prominent forehead and mismatched eyes. His hair was a blonde so pale it was nearly white, with a few black streaks. He was ugly in the same way a malformed pup might be; Delora wasn’t frightened, only grotesquely fascinated. How could he be a Lannister, son of proud, ramrod straight Lord Tywin and brother to handsome Ser Jaime? He looked as though he had been weeping. His face was red and puffy and his shoulders bowed.

Ser Ivor Clegane bowed low. “My lord,” he said plainly, but his discomfort at Gregor’s presence was obvious by the way he tensed, as if bracing for a fight. Father always carried his blade, a plain shortsword, on him, but Delora knew it would be shattered with so much as a glance from Gregor’s.

“We encountered your heir on the road,” Lord Tywin said, “I expect you are pleased to have both sons home again.”

“Aye, my lord,” Ivor replied uneasily, then glanced at Delora, who promptly curtseyed to the warden. “My youngest, Delora.”

“Yes,” said Lord Tywin, “The girl. How old is she, ser?”

“Ten on her last name day, my lord.”

“Ten,” he mused. “She looks older than that. Tall for her age, like her brothers.”

Delora resisted the urge to to hide herself behind her father. She was a Clegane, and Cleganes did not cower, even when faced with a pride of lions. Especially when faced with a pride of lions.

“I’m here about the girl,” Tywin continued. “And my son.”

Father looked at the Kingslayer, who said nothing, that pained smile still on his face. 

“No,” Lord Tywin drawled, “My younger son.” He directed a contemptuous look at the Imp, who did not even raise his eyes from the floor. “You see, ser, he’s decided he’s in need of a wife. Unfortunately, he mistook a whore for one.”

The Imp- the boy, Delora decided, because that was what he was, in truth, no laughing devil but a little boy, ugly and terribly sad about something- all the same, his shoulders were shaking. The Kingslayer looked at his brother for a moment, and his smile wavered.

“Now that the matter has been settled, I think it best he wed a more suitable bride.” Tywin locked eyes with Ivor. “The granddaughter of a kennel master should be close enough for him.”

Delora could feel the jolt of anger that rushed through her father through her sheer proximity to him, the way he shook slightly in rage and wanted to growl a response, but in the end, Ivor was only the son of a kennel master, and he lowered his head. “If… if that is your will, my lord.”

Delora made a small sound, of either dismay or anger, she was not sure herself, but it came out like little more than a whimper anyways. Gregor chuckled. Not very loudly, but she heard his familiar low snigger all the same. 

“She is- she is unflowered, my lord,” Father added after a long pause. “I- she is just a child, in truth-,”

“They seem to marry young, these days,” Lord Tywin did not wait for him to finish the thought. “Of course, I doubt my son will have much interest in consummating the marriage, as his… appetite has been sated, I suspect, for the time being. We will perform the ceremony in your sept, and be on our way. Your younger son has already declared his intention to join my household, so she will not be without her family at Casterly Rock.”

Ivor Clegane opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out was, “We… we are without a septon currently, my lord-,”

“I have done you the service of bringing mine,” Tywin said smoothly.

It all happened very quickly. Her warmest cloak was brought and she was bundled atop a pony, and their small procession left the keep and headed for the ramshackle village sept. There were a few inches of snow on the ground, and by the time they had left the keep and reached the sept, the sun was nearly all the way set, and the sky had turned a deep purple blue, like that of a bruise. 

Delora felt very sick and shaky, and rather than help her dismount, Father lifted her off the pony and carried her bodily into the sept, as she was not wearing boots and her fine shoes would be ruined in the slush and mud. She clung to him when he set her down inside the small hall, barely big enough to fit the Cleganes, Lord Tywin, his sons, and the withered old septon, who, if he disapproved, did not dare voice his complaints to the warden. Gregor had to sit down; the ceiling was too low for him, and Sandor had to duck his head and hunch his shoulders.

A few candles were hurriedly lit, and Delora stared at the wooden carvings of the Seven. Ser Ivor was not a very pious man, and while Delora had at least tried to pay attention to Septa’s teachings, she had seen little of the Mother’s mercy or the Father’s guidance in her own life. They said Gregor had killed a princess and her babe, and he had not suffered for it. What kind of gods were the Seven, to reward the monsters and punish the innocent?

Then Septa was there, pushing Delora’s hood down from her head. She leaned down under the premise of kissing the girl on the cheek, but instead whispered into her ear, “You must be very brave now, Delora. I know you can be brave, and make your father proud. Halfman or not, you will be wed to a Lannister, and there is no shame in that.” Then she brushed back a few errant wisps of dark hair from Delora’s thin face.

It was barely a few strides with her skinny arm linked with her father’s to reach the crude altar. There were few prayers and no songs. The gaunt candles kept threatening to extinguish, as the wooden hall was not much warmer than the cold night outside. Delora had no maiden’s cloak, just a plain black wool cloak she had always worn in the winter, slightly frayed at the edges. When her father removed it from her shoulders, his hands shook. She had never known his hands to shake before.

The boy- Delora only then remembered his name, Tyrion- had to be helped by the Kingslayer to place a scarlet Lannister cloak on her shoulders. Delora had never attended a wedding, and did not know the vows, and so had to recite after the septon.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband,” she whispered.

Tyrion’s voice was barely any louder than her own, although it was certainly deeper. It cracked painfully on “I pledge my love”, and then when it was time for them to kiss, he did nothing, only stood there. Delora waited, and then, thinking they might be punished- although clearly, he did not care what happened- she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his for a split second, before pulling back. She’d had to lean down to do so, as she already towered over him. His lips were cold and chapped, and salty like tears.

She did not know why she was not crying, for she did not want any of this- she didn’t want to be anyone’s wife, nevermind his, and she did not want to be taken away from her home, and she did not want to be Delora Lannister, but the tears would not come, no matter how hard she blinked. Her eyes were almost painfully dry, even as the septon declared them “One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” Forever. 

It was late and cold, but Lord Tywin refused the reluctant offer of rooms in the keep, and said that if the weather held, they’d make Casterly Rock by dawn. None of his men, nor either of his sons, spoke against it. Father and Gregor and Septa were all staying. Lord Tywin said she had no need of a septa, now that she was wed. Her things could be sent to Casterly Rock afterwards.

Father hugged her and breathed, “I’m sorry, sweetling,” into her hair. He had never called her that before, only ‘lass’ or ‘girl’ or ‘Lora’ if he was in a particularly good mood, which was rare. Septa Ines was weeping silently, although trying to hide it, and told her to stay warm, and be good, and to write her often. Gregor simply said, “Safe travels, sister,” and she knew he was pleased by all this, that although she had never done anything to him, barely knew him, that he took pleasure in the fact that this had hurt her, hurt Father, and hurt Sandor, who, although he had said nothing all evening, was black-eyed with rage.

The only thing Delora could take any comfort in, was that while Ser Jaime offered, in what she thought was an attempt at a kindness, to have her ride with him atop his fine white courser, Sandor cut in, “Pardons, my lord, but she’ll ride with me.” It was close to a sneer. He roughly heaved her up in front of him, arranging his cloak around her as well, and Delora leaned into his chest and began to silently cry. He said nothing, only pushed his stallion to a canter. She closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of her brother, and pretended she was small again and they were out riding, and that home was just in sight.


	3. Chapter 3

Delora had only ever seen Casterly Rock from a distance, an imposing onlooker on the horizon, casting a watchful gaze out over the Westerlands. She had certainly never been inside it, but when she woke, she was in a bed warmer and softer than her own at home, and when she stared blearily at the headboard, there were carved lions growling down at her, rather than running dogs. Then she realized why she still felt cold, despite the warmth of the room; her dogs were not there. 

Her eyes felt hard and swollen from crying in her sleep, and her face was flushed and puffy. Was she in her husband’s chambers? She glanced around, hugging the covers around herself, but the room was small and simple, although still lavishly outfitted. She saw no sign of Tyrion, or any Lannister at all. Her hair was a matted, tangled mess, and she was still wearing the dress she’d been wed in, although someone had removed her shoes and taken the ribbon out of her hair. 

As she shoved back the covers, the door banged open and she jumped back slightly as three maids bustled in carrying a tub and steaming water, followed by a short blonde woman with a gentle face. Delora did not think she was a Lannister by birth, because the woman’s eyes were not green at all but a dark brown, and her hair was the color of straw, not spun gold. She was plain, which Delora felt heartened by. Her father had always warned her against being drawn in pretty looks. Gregor was not ugly, and he was a monster. 

“Hello, dear,” said the woman, “Delora, isn’t it?”

Delora opened her mouth to speak but her throat felt raw from a night of riding in the wind and cold, and instead just nodded, hoping she’d be mistaken for shy, rather than rude. But the woman did not seem to mind, instead coming up to her and taking her chapped and not quite clean hands in her own. Her hands were very soft, softer even than Septa’s. But the fingers were callused, if only lightly. This was a woman who worked with her hands, and had for quite some time.

“I am Lady Dorna, Lord Kevan’s wife,” the soft woman introduced herself. 

Delora struggled to remember who Lord Kevan was, and then recalled that he was one of Lord Tywin’s younger brothers. One version of the man was menacing enough. She could not imagine multiple. 

Lady Dorna gave a small laugh. “Tyrion’s aunt, dear, and now yours.”

Delora had never had an aunt before. Her father had had brothers, but they had all died as babes or children. He’d always said that daughters were rare in the Clegane line. She finally smiled back at the woman, although she thought it probably resembled more of a grimace. Either way, Dorna was undaunted. She lightly pulled Delora up on her feet, and cast a sympathetic eye over her now dirty and stained dress and mussed hair. If she saw that Delora had clearly been crying, she kept her silence, and instead chirped, “I think that a nice hot bath before breakfast would be best, don’t you? They always make me feel better, on bitter winter days like this.”

Delora glanced over at the window, where pale morning light cast a glimmer on the floor. She wondered how high up she was. “Where am I?”

Dorna frowned as she began to work on the already quite loose stays on the back of Delora’s dress, carefully moving her hair out of the way. “Why, Casterly Rock, sweetling. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, but-,” Delora bit her chapped lower lip, and then continued roughly as she was helped out of the dress, “Is this- is this my husband’s room?” It felt queer and ugly to say it, like a curse. 

Dorna paused in the middle of handing off the rumpled dress to one of the maids, who was looking at Delora with a pitying expression, as if she was some waif off of the street. Delora glowered back; she may never have had a maid of her own before, but she was still a Clegane, and now she was a lady, wasn’t she? Not just a Mistress Delora, as the servants at home had (seldom) called her.

“No,” Dorna said, and a strange look crossed her face, almost angry. “No, it is not. This- this will be your room, at least for the time being. Do you understand?”

Delora understood enough. She’d seen enough animals in heat and mating to know, or at least guess, what happened on wedding nights and how children came about. She also knew that it was considered a great sin to do those things with a girl who was unflowered. She was safe until then, at least. 

She nodded again, and reluctantly pulled off her wrinkled and worn chemise. She was as flat as a boy and refused to look ashamed or embarrassed at her nudity as she quickly scrambled into the tub full of warm water. Of course, she’d had baths at home, every other day or so, at Septa’s insistence, but once she was five or six she’d always bathed herself. Now she recoiled from the hands in her hair, splashing water everywhere.

“Stay still,” one of the maids snapped in exasperation. 

“Don’t touch me!” Delora snapped back. “I can do it myself, I’m not a baby!” Her voice sounded high and shrill, and she realized she sounded like a little girl, even if she wasn’t one. If she was old enough to be wed, surely she was nearly a woman grown. And far too old to be bathed by someone else.

“Of course not,” Dorna soothed, “But you may hurt yourself, working at those tangles.”

Delora wanted to argue that her hair had been in much worse states than this, and that she didn’t see why it mattered in the first place, but Dorna was already pushing back the sleeves of dusty pink gown and crouching down beside her. Her hands were much less rough than those of the maids, and while Delora stiffened at first, she eventually relaxed enough to let the woman make short work of her hair. Delora’s hair was no longer than her shoulders, but Dorna praised it once she was done rinsing the suds from it, as Delora scrubbed aggressively at her arms and legs with a bar of soap.

“It will be very lovely, once you grow it out a bit.”

“I don’t like it,” Delora muttered, “It’s too thick and everything gets caught in it.”

Dorna smiled in bemusement. “Well, perhaps I can show you some ways to keep it, so it does not get so tangled.” The woman’s own hair was straight and fine, and tucked up under a white veil, not so severe as the one Septa Ines wore, but very modest still. She must be a very devout woman. Delora hoped she would not be required to recite prayers. She could never remember any.

When she had dried off the bath she was given a pale blue dress and matching slippers to wear. It was clearly someone else’s before her, and it was too big in the waist and too short in the legs, but Dorna declared her very pretty indeed as Delora worked her hair into its customary braid and flipped it over her shoulder. She glanced at herself in the mirror, which seemed new and nowhere near as cracked and stained as the one she had at home. She looked odd and out of place, not pretty at all, but at least her face was less puffy. 

On the way to breakfast Dorna told her about her husband, Kevan, who was, according to her, very kind, and her sons, Lancel, a little lad of four, and Willem, a babe. Both were present at the table in the small hall Delora was brought too. Lancel wrinkled his face up at her and the baby cried until Dorna took him from the maid. 

There was another woman at the table as well, although she was much older than Dorna, perhaps forty, although there was no grey in her golden hair, and her broad face was remarkably unlined. Where Dorna was thin, this woman was plump, although Delora could tell she had once been very pretty. Her curls were long and flowing, and her eyes were a keen green. “So this is the little pup Tywin thought to bring home,” she commented, although she did not sound upset, merely appraising.

Delora had not curtsied to Dorna, although she should have, but felt it would be foolish to not do so for this woman. “My lady.”

“Lady Genna Lannister,” the woman corrected, with a sharp smile. “And your kin, so it would seem.” Her eyes narrowed. “How old are you, child? Twelve?”

“Ten,” Delora said very quietly. Dorna looked surprised, and Genna frowned, looking like she wanted to say more, but instead waved Delora towards a seat. “Come and eat. You look half starved…,” she was clearly searching for a name.

“Delora,” Dorna offered, and squeezed her shoulder in comfort before taking her own seat beside little Lancel, the babe in her arms having quieted. 

Delora had never seen this much food laid out excepting at a feast, and feasts had been few and far between at Clegane Keep. 

“Ten years old and already wed,” Genna mused, while Delora tried to contain her sudden, ravenous hunger and eat as delicately as Septa had taught her. “And I thought myself unfortunate, to be wed at fourteen!” She glanced at Dorna. “And how old were you, good sister?”

Dorna smiled. “Sixteen. I would have liked to have been wed sooner, but Kevan insisted we wait until I came of age.”

Genna huffed. “Yes, yes, they will sing songs of your love. I doubt that will be of much comfort to the girl.”

Delora froze, mid-sip of warm milk. It was much creamier than any she’d ever had before.

“Don’t pause on my account, you’re skin and bones as it is,” Genna said pointedly, and Delora averted her eyes. The woman did not frighten her, but she did talk quite a bit. And quite sharply. 

“Genna,” Dorna said, in what was likely as close to reproach as she dared, since she seemed quite intimidated by the older woman. “She… I am sure Delora will come to consider this her home, in time, just as I did.”

Genna rolled her green eyes, and addressed Delora again. “Did you think you were the first poor girl to be slung over the back of a horse and carried off to the Rock? Dorna was brought here when she was only a little older than you, when her father could not pay House Swyft’s debts.”

“And I was always well treated,” Dorna was quick to add. “I truly did come to love it here, and I wed Kevan of my own free will.”

“Yes,” said Genna, “Well, if I’m to believe the whispers, they dragged this one into a sept in the middle of the night.”

Delora stared at her plate.

Genna gave a thoughtful hum. “What’s done is done, either way, and you’re here now to stay. Your things will be brought over this week- is there anything you would like in particular?”

Delora wondered if it was some sort of trick, but after a moment raised her head and said, “My dogs. Tyb and Ger. And…,” she almost lost her nerve, but plunged on, “And my septa, please. Lord Tywin said I… I had no need of her, but- but I haven’t finished my lessons, and-,” her voice hitched slightly, and she sank into silence. She could not start crying again, she could not. Their pity would be worse than any rebuke.

“Well,” said Dorna softly, after a moment, “I’m afraid, dear, if Lord Tywin said-,”

“The septa will be brought here, and the dogs,” Genna cut in abruptly. “Septa Saranella passed from a winter chill several months past, and my children are certainly in need of a new one. Yours will be as well, Dorna.”

“I- yes, of course,” Dorna said.

Delora wiped at her runny nose with the back of her hand, before Genna glanced back at her. “Will that please you, child? Your hounds and your septa?” It could have been mocking, but it was not. Rather, it was almost surprised.

“Yes,” Delora nodded. “Thank you, my lady,” she added quickly.

Genna arched a pale eyebrow. “Good. The last thing this castle needs is yet another miserable child. Really, the servants will start to talk.” She stood up in a flurry of rich skirts. “Very well, enjoy your breakfast. I’ve business to attend to with my dear brother.” Head held high, she left the room.

Delora felt very full, and asked Dorna if she could see her brother. The woman appeared confused at first, before connecting the name ‘Clegane’ between Delora and the Hound, and then agreed. “I am sure a servant would be happy to take you-,”

But Delora was already up and almost, but not quite, running from the room, and left Dorna and her children behind as she scurried down the hallway and down flight after flight of stairs. She did not know where anything was located, but she knew where Sandor would be. A stolen cloak and several irritated servants later, she found herself in the training yard, and dodged around several confused men until she saw the figure she had been searching for.

“San!” she cried out, louder than she meant to, and her brother turned in surprise, almost missing a parry from the man he’d been sparring with, who was red faced and sweaty despite the cold. Sandor promptly knocked the man to the ground with one swing, and with a scowl marched her into the nearby, relative warmth of the armory, before tugging off his fearsome helm.

“What are you doing out here?” he demanded. 

“Looking for you!” For the first time in what seemed like days, Delora broke into a genuine grin, and Sandor’s expression softened as she threw her skinny arms around his waist, since despite her height she only came up just past his elbow.

“You’re alright, then?” he asked gruffly.

She nodded against his cold armor. “I have my own room, and the ladies were nice. They said I can have my dogs, and Septa.”

He was silent for a moment, and then his gloved hand came to rest on her head. “Good.”

Delora swallowed hard. “I miss home,” she confessed. “I want to go back.”

Sandor shook his head. “No you don’t,” he said bitterly. “Not with Gregor there." He hesitated, his scowl deepened, and then he went on, “In a way, it’s good. This will get you away from him.”

“But Father-,”

“Father will be alright,” Sandor said. “But here you’re safer than you would be there, even if they saddled you to a little freak.”

Delora frowned. “I’m not scared of him. I’m bigger than he is, anyways.”

Her brother exhaled through his nostrils. “Aye, you are. If he touches you, I’ll kill him.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Delora, although she knew he was not lying. “Lord Tywin would have you hung.”

“Lord Tywin would have me torn apart by Father’s own dogs,” Sandor corrected savagely. “If he ever hurts you, you need to come to me, and I’ll kill him, and we’ll leave.”

“They’d hunt us down,” Delora let go of him; her face was stinging from the cold.

“I’d slaughter them all like pigs,” said Sandor, “If it meant keeping you safe.”

She believed him still.


	4. Chapter 4

Delora woke up one morning several days later to find her dogs atop her bed, barking and lapping at her face with their wet tongues.

“Oh dear,” gasped Dorna from the doorway, with a dismayed looking maid, “Are they- they won’t bite, will they, sweetling?”

Delora was too busy giggling and cooing at the dogs to respond for a moment, before she scrambled up on her knees and declared, “Tybalt, Gerold, sit.” The dogs immediately sat down on the bed, although they were a bit big for it. “No,” she told Dorna, wrinkling her nose. “Father gave them to me for my eighth birthday. I was supposed to only have one, but they’re brothers, and I wouldn’t let him split them up. The rest of their litter died. But they’d never bite me. I’m their mistress.”

“My lord father kept hunting dogs,” Dorna said, still looking a bit uneasy, “But I much preferred cats, as a girl.”

Delora’s only significant memory of the few cats around Clegane Keep was being scratched by one as a toddler. She had avoided them after that, although she had trained Tyb and Ger to not attack them. She stroked their sleek heads fondly, ignoring much of what Dorna was saying about them sleeping in the kennel with the other dogs at night. “I’ll clean up after them,” she said, without looking up, “I always have.”

“And there’s something else,” Dorna said, as Delora threw back the covers and slid out of bed, eager for breakfast and another day of roaming around Casterly Rock. She had been having breakfast with Delora and the children, lunch with Sandor, when she could find him, and dinner with Delora and her husband, Lord Kevan, who was portly but kind. She knew they pitied her, and that was why they took any interest in the granddaughter of a kennel master at all, but she did not care so long as she was given food to eat and not hurt. She knew Tyrion had to be around the castle somewhere, but she had no desire to find him. 

She did not hate him, as he hadn’t wanted to be married any more than her, but it was still his fault that she was even here in the first place. He’d run off with some whore, the servants said. Delora knew she should not know what a whore was, but she’d heard Gregor speaking about them before, and what he did with them, and it had always made her feel ill. Eventually, she knew she would run into her husband, but until then, she was happy to pretend as though he did not exist. Remembering the taste of tears on his mouth made her uncomfortable.

“Delora?” Dorna asked again in bemusement, dragging the girl out of her thoughts. “Or should I say, there’s someone else here?”

Septa Ines looked terrible. She had a slowly healing cut on her pale forehead, and one of her eyes was blackened. Her lower lip was split open a bloody red, and while her modest white garments covered the rest of her body, Delora could tell from the way she moved that she must be hurt elsewhere as well. “Did they hurt you?” she demanded of the woman, wary of embracing her, although she desperately wanted to.

“Of course not, child,” Ines said, pulling Delora to her anyways, cupping her face with a cool hand. “I-,” she hesitated, “Ser Gregor-”

“He hit you?” Delora said, feeling a rush of hot anger. Her brother might be heir, but he had no right to hurt a woman like Septa. “Why? Father would never-”

“Hush, Delora,” Septa Ines said gently. “It was your father who saved me. Had he not come when he did…” she shook her head. “It is nothing for a little girl to hear about. All that matters is that you are safe.”

“I’m a woman wed,” Delora said with a defiant note, “Not a little girl. I’m a Lannister now- I’m Gregor’s lady, too! Maybe- maybe I can have him flogged, for what he did.”

Ines shook her head. “Put it out of your mind, child. I’m here now.” Dorna and the maids had left the room, and for the first time Delora was completely alone with someone she did not have to be strong in front of. She crumpled, not quite crying but almost, and clung to the woman that was as close to a mother as she would ever have. Ines stroked her hair gently. “You’ve been such a brave girl.”

“I haven’t,” Delora whispered, and screwed her eyes shut so she could pretend that she was home once more. 

Septa’s bruises healed, and Delora’s lessons began again as if nothing had ever happened, although now they were different. Before, she had been being prepared for marriage to a landed knight like her father or even a minor lord. Now she was the wife of Tywin Lannister’s second son, and while Ines was blunt with her; “Tywin Lannister will never let your husband inherit, even if he has to drag Ser Jaime back from King’s Landing on his deathbed.”, it was still a position of influence and power. Or would be, when she was a woman grown. 

Delora Lannister had to be different from Delora Clegane. She could not wear breeches or run off to play with common children. She needed to dress tastefully without attracting too much attention, improve her penmanship, dancing, and embroidery, begin to learn the high harp, and learn how to conduct herself at the feasts, dinners, and balls that would no doubt be held at Casterly Rock throughout her lifetime. She had married far, far, above her station and combined with her husband’s… deformities... they would be the subject of much mockery and ridicule. She would have to learn to ignore some things and sharply reprimand others. 

It was during one such lesson in the evening after dinner, while Delora squinted irritably down at her needlework by the fire, that she encountered Tywin Lannister for the first time in nearly a month since her arrival at Casterly Rock. The castle was so enormous that it was quite easy to avoid the man, and Delora had often wondered if he had completely forgotten about her after bringing her there, having considered the matter settled and done. Septa had explained to her that she had simply been part of a punishment enacted upon Tyrion for shaming his father so. Delora thought it was Lord Tywin’s shame people ought to be concerned with- normal fathers would beat their sons. Instead he had stolen a girl to shackle to his son. 

She was so annoyed with her task that she at first did not notice Genna Lannister and the Warden of the West in the doorway, but Ines did, and immediately rose, sinking into a deep curtsy. Delora belatedly scrambled to her feet as well, hating how her heart began to pound wildly in her chest and her face flushed red as wine in dread of what the man might say or do. He did not terrify her as Gregor always had, but he inspired a different sort of fear entirely. Her eldest brother could kill her. Tywin Lannister could do so as well, but in a far slower fashion. He could order her locked in a dungeon cell for the rest of her short life.

“My lord,” she murmured, keeping her gaze on the floor.

“Our apologies for disturbing you and your septa, Delora,” said Genna. Her tone was uncharacteristically grim, which made Delora tense all the more. Had she done something to displease them? Was she going to be punished now? Septa would try to protect her, but there was little she could. 

“How do you find Casterly Rock, my lady?” asked Lord Tywin, with just enough of a combination of mocking and commanding that she jerked her head up to look at him.

“I like it very much, my lord,” she lied, and, remembering her courtesies, “Thank you for your generosity. You have been very kind.” Delora had never liked to lie, mostly because it seemed rather pointless, but in this case she would have said that the sun rose in the west and set in the east, if she thought it would appease him.

He did not look very convinced, either way, and she saw the look he cast over her dress, one of many new ones. It was not extravagant, but it was a far cut above what she had been married in. “At least your disposition appears to have improved,” he said. “See that it remains that way.”

Delora bowed her head. “Yes, my lord.”

“Sister,” he said then, “I think it best you tell it. I cannot abide the wailing of women.”

Genna Lannister frowned but said nothing as he left them. She stepped into the room slightly, the firelight making her eyes gleam. Delora was confused by what Lord Tywin had met, and remained standing, but Septa was very tense. “My lady, what news?” she asked, and Delora felt the dread return in full force.

“Sit down, child,” Genna told Delora, who did so immediately, but her hands balled up into shaking fists in her lap. Then she glanced over her shoulder, back into the darkened corridor. “Boy, come in.”

Sandor stepped slowly into the room. He wore no armor, although his sword was strapped to his side. Genna looked at him, then glanced at Delora, and Sandor finally said, “Father is dead, Lora.”

Delora stared at him. Septa Ines gave a quiet cry, and covered her mouth her hand. 

“It was a hunting accident,” Sandor said stiffly. “Two nights past. A stray arrow. Our brother has written Lord Tywin to inform him that he has succeeded him as master of the keep and our lands.”

Delora stood up. She did not know why. All she knew was that she could not hear this and sit down like the good little lady wife she was supposed to be. “No,” she said to Sandor. “No, it can’t be true. He’s lying. He’s lying!”

“Delora,” said Ines, and reached for her, but Delora dodged her, staring at her brother. “San, please. It can’t- Father can’t die like that, he- he’s too strong, a single arrow can’t-,”

Sandor just looked at her. It was the look of an old dog when it laid down in a corner at night after a day’s hunt with no reward. It was a look of tired defeat. “He’s gone,” he said simply, and Delora gave a little wounded yelp and ran past him and a startled Genna, out into the hall. Sandor started after her, but she practically flew down a flight of stairs and around a corner, and while she knew he was much faster than her, especially when she was wearing a dress, she also knew that if she took enough turns she could lose him. So she did.

Finally she burst into a big, echoing room which she initially mistook for an empty feasting hall, but then her watering eyes registered the shelves and shelves of books and scrolls, stack after stack. Delora knew what a library was, but she had never been in one before. Clegane Keep had very few books, and the ones they had all belonged to Maester Andon. Delora didn’t care about books. All she cared about was that it looked like a very good place to hide, where no one would find her until morning. She didn’t care how dirty her dress got.

She wove her way among the stacks, getting more and more disoriented as her eyes filled with tears, until she collided with the hard edge of a table. The person sitting at the other end of the table, with a pile of books and a lantern, looked up and snapped, “What are you doing?”

Delora wiped at her eyes frantically, and then stared down the length of the table at her husband. He looked a bit better than he had the last time she had seen him. His face was no longer as red or swollen he wasn’t so slumped and hunched over. But he was still just as odd looking and short. She doubted his stumpy legs even touched the floor. He didn’t even recognize her, she realized, given how dim it was. 

“You’re not allowed to be in here,” Tyrion Lannister said shortly. “Go to bed, girl.”

Did he think she was a lost maid? Delora took a few steps into the light, and saw his face change, from irritation to shock to anger to a mocking little smile.

“Hello wife,” he said. “Finally come to have a look at your imp of a husband?” It should have been a jeer, but it was too quiet. 

“No,” she spat out, “No, I’m not- this- this is all your fault!” she screeched, the loudness of her cry surprising even her. Even he looked taken aback. “I didn’t want to be your wife, I didn’t want to be here, and now Father is dead and I’ll never see him again! I hate you! I want to go home!” But she didn’t, not really. Not if Father wasn’t there. She did not want to go home to see Gregor sitting in Father’s seat at the table and beating the servants and doing terrible things in the village.

Delora did not know how to say any of that, so instead she sunk into a heap against one of the sturdy table legs, and rocked back and forth slowly as she cried. She had never had a mother, and now she had no father as well. All she had left was Sandor and Septa. Home was lost to her forever; even if she was able to go back, Gregor would hurt her or kill her, and then Sandor would try to stop him, and Gregor would kill him as well. There was nothing to return to but a monster who’d taken Father’s place. Her only place now was here, where she hadn’t even wanted to be in the first place.

Tyrion had gotten down from his chair and waddled over to her. Delora did not look up at him. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I was cruel. I did not know. You’re just a child.”

She was so sick of everyone calling her a child. “I’m your wife,” she hissed.

He flinched as if struck. “Don’t say that.”

“I am!”

“I said, don’t say that!” he snapped back, and despite his diminutive size and the way his voice still creaked when he spoke, because he was only three years older than her, there was enough of Tywin Lannister’s menace in his voice to give her pause. So she said nothing at all, but hiccuped and coughed instead, as her tears yielded somewhat.

“I’m sorry your father is dead,” he said then, and she believed him, because he did sound sorry. “Is your mother-,”

“I haven’t got one,” she muttered, not caring that she had interrupted her lord husband, which Septa said one should never do. She had already screamed at him and told him she hated him, which Delora thought were likely far greater offenses. So what? What was he going to do, beat her? She could easily overpower him. Maybe he would just have someone else beat her for him. Maybe he would make Sandor do it. That’s what Lord Tywin would do. He was his son.

“Me neither,” said Tyrion. “She- she died in the birthing bed with me.”

“Mine too,” Delora mumbled. “Father said I killed her.”

Tyrion froze for a moment, and was very quiet, so she clarified, “But he said it wasn’t my fault. I was just a babe, and she was too weak. But I did kill her.”

“So did I,” he replied. 

Delora felt a bit bolder now, and so, too full of grief and pain and anger to care about the consequences, asked, “Did you really marry a whore?”

His expression darkened, but she looked at him steadily, and then he gave a tiny nod.

“Why?” she asked flatly.

He looked furious for a moment, and she considered that even if he was little, a backhand from him would likely still hurt quite a bit. But he did not strike her. “I thought she loved me,” he said instead. “I was a fool.”

Delora frowned. “I thought whores loved all men.”

Tyrion looked at her, and then barked a short, humorless laugh. “Not the way I thought she did.”

“Where is she?” Delora asked then, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her dress.

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “And it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t real. She wasn’t my wife for true.”

“Am I?”

He looked at her with pure pity in his queer, mismatched eyes. “Yes.”


	5. Chapter 5

Delora was informed that Lord Tywin, the Kingslayer, and Lady Genna were leaving for King’s Landing a fortnight after the news of Father’s death. Queen Cersei had given birth to a little prince, an heir for the king. She was pleased to hear this, although she did mind Genna, because it was a month’s travel to reach King’s Landing from Casterly Rock, and would likely take even longer due to the winter weather. It could be months and months before Lord Tywin returned. The household was busy preparing for the journey, and Delora sought out Sandor. 

He had been angry with her for running off, but he was even more angry about Gregor inheriting everything. Not because he wanted the keep or the land; Sandor was more comfortable around common soldiers than knights or lords. But he was angry for the same reason Delora was; Gregor did not deserve to be called Ser Gregor Clegane, master of Clegane Keep, and there was little they could do about it. Gregor had had the fortune to be born first, to be born strong and massive, to be born savage and cruel. All his life, things had gone his way, and if they had not, he had forced them to anyways. 

But to her surprise, Sandor was not in the yard sparring, or in the armory. When she asked after him, she was told he was in his room, packing. 

“Packing for what?” she demanded with a scowl, crossing her skinny arms over her chest.

“Are ye dull, girl?” the Lannister soldier snorted. “The loyal Hound is following his master to King’s Landing.”

Delora stared at him in shock for a moment, then turned on her heel and fled back indoors, racing down corridors and dodging annoyed servants before she arrived at her brother’s room. The door was shut, but it was not locked, and she roughly pushed it open as she entered, breathless.

Sandor jerked up from the trunk he’d been bent over, expression dark, but it faded some when he saw it was her, and not a nosy maid. “What?” he barked.

“What?” Delora snapped back. “You’re leaving!”

“Aye,” he nodded, avoiding her furious gaze.

“You can’t leave! We’re supposed to stay together!” Sandor had been what had gotten her through all of this; her forced marriage, a strange new place, Father’s death… To have him torn away from her like this was unthinkable. 

“I’ve my orders,” he said. “And I pledged to obey.”

“You’re not a knight!” Delora retorted. “You don’t have to-”

“Delora,” Sandor interrupted her coldly. “Don’t be a fool. If Lord Tywin says I’m going, I’m going. The little prince will need a guard dog,” he sneered.

“He’s a baby,” Delora sniffed, although she told herself firmly that she was not going to cry. She’d cried more in the last two months than she ever had in her entire life. “What does a baby need with guards?”

“He’s an important baby,” her brother scoffed. “The first Baratheon heir to sit the Iron Throne. Not everyone thinks his father deserves it.”

“But King Robert won the throne by rights,” Delora frowned. She had been born during the reign of the Mad King, but it was Robert Baratheon’s reign that she remembered. She’d been seven when he was crowned, and all the songs were full of tales of his glory and valor and his lost lady love. 

“Aye,” said Sandor, “And before him the Targaryens held it for almost three hundred years. Some want to see their pale arses on it again.”

Delora smiled, but it was thin and wavering. “You’ll come back sometimes, won’t you?”

“If His Grace permits it,” Sandor shrugged, but she could see that it bothered him more than he let on. “Stay out of trouble while I’m gone. Don’t go running off by yourself.” He looked uncertain of whether to embrace her or not, so Delora closed the gap, burying her face against his stomach, remembering his familiar smell. 

“Don’t get killed, San,” she muttered. 

She looked up at him to see his humorless smile. “I’ll try not to, Lora.”

Casterly Rock was a good deal more subdued after its primary lord and lady had departed, leaving Lord Kevan and Lady Dorna in charge, both of whom were much more forgiving. Delora naturally took advantage of this to slip away from her lessons with Septa and play with her dogs, or explore the dungeons, where it was said old Lord Tytos, who’d raised the Cleganes up to landed knights, had kept his lions. But she did not find any lions, not even bones.

It was on the return from an excursion to the kitchens, where she’d swiped a biscuit while the baker was busy yelling at a serving boy, that she encountered Tyrion once more. He was not as angry as he had been that night in the library, and he was wearing a fine crimson doublet. Delora’s dress was new, but there was a small jam stain on the bodice. 

“Hello,” he said to her in surprise.

“Hello,” said Delora, quickly swallowing what remained of the biscuit. “You didn’t go to King’s Landing.”

“No,” his neutral expression twitched a bit. “My sister’s not terribly fond of me. I doubt she’d want the Imp around her precious son.”

Delora had never met Queen Cersei, and only knew that she was said to be the most beautiful woman in the realm. The Light of the West, with flowing golden locks and emerald eyes. She wiped her hands on her skirt. Tyrion smirked a little. “Raiding the kitchens, were we?”

She shrugged. 

“You’re not much of a lady, are you?” he asked, although the question had less of a bite to it than it could have.

“I wasn’t meant to be a lady,” she said flatly. “Only a mistress.”

He stiffened, and looked as though he were about to go.

“I want to go out riding,” Delora said suddenly. “It’s not snowing today, and I’m tired of being inside.”

Tyrion raised a pale eyebrow.

“You’re my husband. Aren’t you supposed to escort me?” She frowned. “You can ride, can’t you?” She didn’t remember much of the night they’d ridden back to Casterly Rock.

“Yes,” he snapped, “I can ride. I only use a different sort of saddle, to make up for my legs.”

Delora glanced down at his stunted legs, and nodded. “Alright.”

To her surprise, he agreed to go out with her, and they managed to slip out for the most part unnoticed, without a tail of guards. They both rode ponies, Delora a chestnut and he a roan. It was a fine, clear day, despite the chill, and the goldroad was not as bad as it could have been. “Why doesn’t the queen like you?” Delora asked, squinting as the sunlight reflected on the snow covered hills all around them.

Tyrion snorted. “You’re very inquisitive all of a sudden.”

“You’re very secretive!” Delora felt far bolder than usual outside of the Rock. She felt freer, out here, breathing in the crisp air and feeling the cold sting at her cheeks 

He did laugh at that, genuinely, and then said, “The queen believes I was born to make her life an unending misery, and so she’s returned the favor tenfold.” His tone was light enough, but Delora could sense the flicker of anger beyond the edges of the words.

“My brother hates me too,” she said after a moment. 

“The Mount- Ser Gregor?” he corrected himself belatedly.

Delora looked down at her reigns. “He hates everyone, as far as I can tell, but- I think he’d kill me if he could. Me and Sandor. We’ve never done anything to him. Just because he could.”

“Is he the one who burned your brother’s face?” Tyrion asked.

She looked over at him quickly, already mouthing ‘no’, but- Father had always said Sandor’s bed sheets had caught fire. And Sandor had never contradicted him. But deep down-

“I- maybe,” she admitted. “Father would never have- Father tried to… He didn’t know what to do with Gregor. He was too big for him to beat and he never listened anyways.”

“Did he ever hurt you?” To her surprise, Tyrion sounded genuinely concerned.

She was silent for a few moments, and answered thickly, “He tried. San protected me. ...Did she hurt you?”

“She tried,” Tyrion smiled thinly. “Jaime tried to protect me, sometimes.”

When Delora’s legs began to ache, she scrambled off her pony and waded through the snow, which was knee high on her. For Tyrion, it nearly reached his waist. “Do you think it will be spring next year?” she asked, scooping up a lump of snow with her gloves and fashioning it into a ball. 

“The maester say so,” he shrugged. “Autumn lasted a year, and so did the summer before it.”

“I was born in summer.” Delora’s last summer had been two years ago, when she was eight. She’d forgotten how it felt, to need no cloak and to lie down in the long grass with the warm sun and the rich blue sky overhead. The westerlands were beautiful in summer, all gold and green. 

“And I in winter.”

“Good,” Delora grinned. “Maybe you’ll win.” With that, she lobbed her perfect snowball directly at his shocked face. She burst into snickers when it landed, and then braced herself for an explosion of anger, but instead he wiped off his face, and in a matter of moments had made one of his own and shot it right back at her.

Delora had not had a proper snowball fight since her very first winter, when she was a tiny girl. She had the advantage of being able to dart about on her side, but he had much better aim, and quickly made himself a well crafted stack of projectiles to launch at her. When Delora finally yielded, she collapsed in the snow, short of breath and giggly, staring up at him for once. He was smiling tentatively in return.

“I’ve never done that before.”

“I have,” said Delora, “With the village children. But sometimes they put rocks in the snowballs. I didn’t like them much.”

“Do you like me?” Tyrion seemed to regret asking it, because he went slightly redder than he already was from the battle, and glanced away.

“I didn’t think I would,” she replied honestly, “But if I have to be someone’s wife, I’d rather be yours than someone else’s.” It wasn’t as though she had much to compare him to, but he didn’t look down his nose at her or call her names. He’d been almost kind. “Do you like me?” she asked, but before he could answer there was a distant sound, and for the first time Delora took stock of their location. 

They’d ridden from mid morning until the late afternoon, and now she realized that they were near the border of her lands. Clegane lands. Gregor’s lands. And she’d just heard a distant hunting horn. “We should go,” she said hastily, jumping up and brushing snow off her cloak.

He nodded and with some struggle mounted his pony again, as Delora climbed back atop hers, and they set off at a canter back towards Casterly Rock. “I want to learn to use a sword,” she called to him as they rode.

Tyrion frowned and glanced over at her, the breeze whipping at his hair. “Why?” he demanded.

“To defend myself. Sandor used to let me use a wooden sword with him, but then he got too big and said I’d get hurt.” Delora didn’t see the sense in that. She had to get hurt if she wanted to learn. But Septa had maintained that she had no place with a weapon in hand. Then again, if Delora had a sword, she’d make sure no one ever laid hands on Ines again.

“You don’t think I can defend you,” he accused. 

Delora groaned. Why were boys always so sensitive? “You’re a Lannister, you can defend me with- with words,” she reasoned. “People have to listen to you. But no one has to listen to me. I don’t- I don’t want to be helpless without you.”

They slowed to a trot as the Rock came into sight on the horizon, the sun starting to set behind it. “You’re asking for my permission?” he questioned.

Delora snorted. “Septa says I have to do that now.”

“And if I forbid you, you’d never pick up a blade?” he might have been close to smiling, she wasn’t sure. She glowered, and he shook his head. “That’s what I thought. Do what you like. Just try not to lose an ear or a nose or an eye, or Father might make me marry again.”

“No,” she smirked, “You’d just be a very sad widower.” She kicked her pony back into a canter, and left him to catch up with her, hood of her cloak slipping down onto her shoulders, hair streaming out behind her like a dark, tangled banner.


	6. Chapter 6

Delora passed three peaceful years at Casterly Rock, until Tyrion celebrated his sixteenth name day and became a man, her monthly courses started, and the Ironborn attacked Lannisport. Of course, it did not happen all at once, but looking back, it seemed to. Summer had began the year prior, after a very brief spring, and Delora welcomed it, having long since tired of cold winds and winter chills. Summer seemed languid and at ease, after a tense and grief filled winter. 

She grew four inches and began to wrap her chest. Her hips widened slightly and any traces of baby fat left her face. Delora knew she was still not what could be considered a pretty girl, but she seemed to have grown into her features a little more. Septa said she would be a ‘handsome’ woman, which Delora took to mean that she would have been passably handsome, had she been born a man. 

Delora saw Sandor at least once every year, as the queen liked to visit Casterly Rock. Delora typically spent said visits in Lannisport with Tyrion, as neither thought it a particularly good idea to be in Cersei Lannister’s presence. Delora reasoned that if her good sister hated her brother, she wouldn’t feel much more kindly towards his wife. Besides, she liked Lannisport. It was clean and safe, given the number of Lannister gold cloaks patrolling the streets, and she had a few fond memories of visiting it with Father as a small girl. She liked to walk down by the harbor and see the ships coming and going, and to watch the sun set over the glittering sea. 

She was not present when Tyrion asked his father if he could tour the Free Cities, as every Lannister son who’d come of age had done for generations, but she was present for the aftermath. She was struggling through a text about the Casterlys, who it was said Lann the Clever had stolen the Rock from, when Tyrion entered. They did not share a bed, but Delora could often be found in his quarters, as she enjoyed talking to him, and they often ate together. 

Besides, she was not blind. She knew Tyrion frequented brothels, which bothered her less than it likely should have. He was a man, and men had needs. So long as she did not have to bear witness to him fucking them, why should she care? She had learned to suppress the flare of anger in her gut whenever he came back drunk and smelling of whores. However, when he was upset with his family, he did not go to whorehouses, but instead came to her. 

“What now?” she grumbled, slamming the book shut and massaging the back of her neck, which ached from being bent over. “Please tell me it’s not another ball we’re forbidden to attend.”

“No,” Tyrion said sharply, “Instead we’re forbidden from leaving the westerlands.”

“He won’t let you go on your tour?” Delora demanded, straightening up in the armchair beside the hearth. “I thought he’d be glad to be rid of us. We can’t ruin the Lannister legacy in Braavos.” She had been secretly looking forward to it. To get the chance to travel outside of Westeros was one only afforded to the very wealthy, if you were not a merchant or sailor. And she had been trying to imagine what they would be like, full of slaves and spices and lace and spun glass. Like something out of a tale for children. 

“He’s gifted me the cisterns and drains of the castle, instead,” Tyrion drawled, clambering into the seat across from her. 

Delora thought he was jesting, but the infuriated look in his mismatched eyes said otherwise. “Tyrion,” she sighed, but she had never been the comforting sort, and he’d lash out at her if she tried, anyways. She slumped back into her seat, and then glanced over as Tybalt and Gerold came over. 

Tybalt laid his head in her lap with a whine, while Gerold sat at Tyrion’s feet, and after a moment he leaned down and scratched the dog behind his ears. He’d been scared of them at first, although he’d insisted he’d only been worried they’d either bite or piss on him, but now they almost seemed to prefer him to Delora, to her exasperation. Likely because he spoiled them rotten with food from his plate.

“Well,” she said, petting Tyb. “Mayhaps you can work out a way to redirect all the shit to spurt back up at him in his privy.”

Tyrion looked at her for a moment, as he always did when she said something either unexpectedly witty or particularly crude, and then laughed. Delora felt a familiar rush of triumph at succeeding in cheering him up, however slightly. 

“Do you know what he told me?” Tyrion asked, with a humorless smile. “No man is free. Only children and fools think elsewise.”

“He’s right,” Delora shrugged. “But one day, he’ll be dead, and there will be no one to stop you from taking a ship and sailing far away.” She smiled slightly. “I could fight bravos for coin. You’d bet on me and make heaps of money.”

“You’re better with a hunting knife than a sword,” her husband countered with a snort.

Three weeks later, while eating breakfast with Dorna and her children, her stomach began to cramp terribly. When she excused herself from the table and went back to her room, she noticed a dark splotch on her fawn colored dress, and when she touched it her fingers came away bloody.

“Oh,” she muttered, “Oh no.” 

Ines found her burning the dress in the hearth and scrubbing at her thighs with a wet rag.

“Delora, it’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said soothingly, as if approaching a feral dog. 

“If they find out I can give birth-,”

“You can’t,” said Ines in reassurance. “You’re far too young, child. Thirteen is no age to be a mother.”

Delora did not know how to voice her fear, which was that Lord Tywin would force her into Tyrion’s bed to further punish the both of them. Her husband’s relationship with his father had hardly improved. If anything, it had worsened, with Tywin infuriated by Tyrion’s whoring. She wasn’t afraid of her husband; she didn’t think Tyrion would ever intentionally hurt her. But he would obey his father, and so would she, regardless of the consequences.

It was Genna who comforted her, although it was less of a comfort and more of a statement of fact. “I won’t let my brother make my nephew a raper,” she said matter of factly to Delora, “So stop fretting over your maidenhead, girl. The Warden of the West has greater concerns than a delayed bedding. It’s between you and your husband.”

Of course, Delora did not tell him, and it was hardly as if he were going to regularly ask whether or not she’d flowered yet. 

The burning of the Lannister fleet occurred several months later, and they had the misfortune to be staying in the city at the time. They were never in any significant danger, as the Ironborn burned the fleet and raided the harbor, but did go any further into the city, and any nobility was the first evacuated. However, as they joined the rushed procession of horses and wagons leaving the city while Lannister bannerman rushed in, Delora turned and realized Tyrion’s mount had fallen behind. 

Cursing softly under her breath, she wheeled her mare out of the line, ignoring the soldier yelling after her, and maneuvered around weeping women and shrieking children to reach him. 

“What are you doing?” she demanded breathlessly, fighting the pull of the crowd, who practically reeked of panic and terror. The westerlands had a long history with the Ironborn, but they had not dared raid the coast since Tywin Lannister had become Warden. “We can’t stay here!”

For once, he was speechless, and he followed her, but she did not get the truth of it from him until they were through the golden city gates and the flow of horse and foot traffic had lightened, some headed up to the Rock, others fleeing further inland. “I- there was a girl I thought I recognized- an Ironborn was raping her,” he said, “But a soldier killed him with an arrow.”

Delora was silent for a few moments as they continued their ride through the hills. It was early morning and the tolling of bells echoed over the landscape, as more men rushed to the defense of the city. She could see Lannister men even now streaming down from Casterly Rock, banners flying proudly in the breeze. “What was her name?” she asked.

“How should I know?” he demanded.

“You know I’m not talking about the girl in Lannisport,” she replied fiercely. “You can tell me her name, at least, Tyrion.”

“Tysha,” he muttered, looking away from her and towards the horizon, where smoke blotted out the sun. “Her name was Tysha. She had black hair and blue gray eyes. She said she was a crofter’s daughter, but that was a lie. Jaime bought her for me, to make me a man. I thought she loved me, so I married her. I gave her a cottage overlooking the sea. But then Father found out, and made Jaime tell me the truth. Then he had each of the guards in the barracks take her, and pay her a silver. He had me go last, for a gold. Lannisters are worth more.” 

He smiled faintly, but there was nothing but hollow pain in his eyes, and Delora felt her stomach turn. “I’m sorry, Tyrion.”

“For what?” he shrugged. “It was a lesson I deserved. I just didn’t realize it at the time. I’ll never have that girl and a cottage by the sea.”

Instead you have me, Delora thought bitterly.

“Besides,” he continued, “no woman would want a dwarf unless she was paid.”

“Does that make me a whore, then?” Delora snapped.

“I didn’t realize you were paid to marry me,” he sniped back. “Don’t be coy, Delora. I heard about you running to my aunt in terror when you flowered. You don’t have to fear me creeping into your room one night.”

She flushed red, but hissed, “I was afraid of your father, not you, you bloody fool!”

He reined up to look at her, hard. “The idea of lying with me must repulse you, all the same.”

“I’m your wife,” she countered coldly. “And if you knew me at all you’d know I wouldn’t borrow books and go riding with someone who repulsed me. I especially wouldn’t let him go hunting with me and my dogs.”

Now it was his turn to flush. “That’s not the same as wanting someone.”

“It’s not,” she agreed, “But how could we ever know, if you keep holding me at a distance? I don’t want to be one of your whores, but I-,” she hesitated, “Someday, I’d like to be married for true.” She shook her head, and gave her mare some lead, and they galloped into Casterly Rock’s outer keep, Tyrion in close pursuit.

Some months later, half drunk on wine during the tourney held at Lannisport to celebrate the Baratheon victory over the Greyjoys, Delora found that kissing Tyrion was something she enjoyed rather a lot, and from his reaction, the same went for him. Not so dog faced now, am I?, she thought savagely, in response to the small, jeering voice in her head that said she was ugly, and just another Lannister whore. Whores weren’t addressed as Lady Delora, no matter how much of an upstart that’d risen far beyond her station.


	7. Chapter 7

Delora was not surprised when Tyrion was forbidden, two years after the Greyjoy uprising, to accompany his uncle Gerion on his quest to retrieve Brightroar. Privately, she found herself agreeing with Lord Tywin; it was a fool’s quest, and Gerion was a fool, as much as she had grown to like the man best out of her husband’s uncles; Kevan was pleasant but irredeemably loyal to his elder brother, and Tygett had died of a pox before she had even come to the Rock. 

She knew very little about Valyria, but she had become a voracious reader in recent years, for had she disdained books her and Tyrion would never have gotten along, and she knew about its doom, and its curse, as much as she remained skeptical of such things. Perhaps curses were not real, but it still stood to reason that no one who set off into the Smoking Sea returned, regardless of how bold they might be. Gerion had always been kind to both Tyrion and her, never disdaining their company, and he had a sweet little bastard daughter named Joy.

But Delora was well aware that were Tyrion to die, she would be sent straight back to Clegane Keep, and this time Sandor would not be there to protect her. Of course, her desire to see him safe and hale was not all self-preservation; she liked Tyrion, even considered him dear to her, and after losing her maidenhead to him at the age of fifteen, found it difficult to deny the fact that there was a bond between them, despite their mutually cynical natures. 

She’d had no objections to lying with him; in fact, she had desired it after months of ‘just’ stealing kisses in darkened corridors, but he had seemed convinced her revulsion would kick in at some point, and furthermore, that she’d no wish for a child by him either. The latter part was true enough; Delora had no wish to become a mother any time soon, but not because she was afraid it would turn out deformed or somehow crippled. She was rather confident that any child of theirs would most likely be fine, given that Tyrion was the only dwarf in his family, and the Cleganes had always been, well, rather the opposite of halfmen. 

Tyrion persisted, but if he was not lying with her than she was convinced he was still having whores, which culminated in a rather nasty disagreement which included raised voices, horrifically foul language on both their parts, and several things being thrown. He accused her of being childish and naive, and she in turn accused him of being a stubborn fool who was so convinced he was unlovable that he’d turn down any woman he didn’t have to pay to fuck.

At some point, Delora simply bent down and cut him off with a kiss, and after that there was very little fighting. Perhaps it was not the sweetest way to lose one’s maidenhead, she reflected later, lying in his bed beside him, and staring up at the canopy above, but she vastly preferred it to some sort of timid, meek, disrobing and tearful wedding night. They had known each other for five years, and been good friends and constant companions for most of them. They had not always been happy with one another, but they had never rejected the other’s company. 

Besides, it had not hurt her nearly as much as he seemed convinced it would. He’d seemed to know what he was doing, but he’d also been annoyingly tentative about the whole thing, so Delora had had to take some initiative herself, which she’d not minded- she’d always thought it seemed as though women got the short end of the stick, being expected to just lie there.

“Stop moping,” she told him irritably, as he had not said a word for quite some time. “I’m alright.” She was better than alright- she had enjoyed herself, rather than just tolerating it.

Her fingers probed at the back of his neck, and his white blonde curls, shining in the torch light.

“I’m not moping,” he said sardonically, without turning to face her, “I’m reflecting on my sins. Specifically, the sin of falling into bed with you.”

She sighed. “You lie with your wife for once and suddenly you’re devout.”

“My wife- more like my she-devil,” he groused, finally rolling over to face her, but when she grinned at him his expression relaxed somewhat and he smiled back briefly, before sobering. “Delora, if you get with child-,”

“I can make my own moon tea,” she said calmly. When he looked at her in shock, she shrugged. “It’s not just learned maesters who know how to brew it, husband.”

Septa Ines had warned Delora that lying with one’s husband might very well be unpleasant, or a bitter chore, but it was not like that with Tyrion. Delora felt as though she were almost fortunate, in that regard. Her husband was an ugly little man with mismatched eyes. What of it? She was a plain, too-tall girl with flat eyes and thick eyebrows.

Several months later the queen gave birth to another son, and this time they were permitted to join the Lannister party setting off for King’s Landing. Delora was less excited than she was expected to be, at the prospect of being at court- as far as she was concerned it meant less privacy, ridiculous and uncomfortable dresses, and intense scrutiny and mockery.

“You’re not wrong about that,” Tyrion commented, watching her rifle through one of her half-packed trunks with a scowl, “But I have not been in King’s Landing since the royal wedding, and the library is quite impressive.”

“Of course, the library,” she muttered.

“There are also a number of secret passages, and I have an inclination to track down the dragon skulls that Robert… disposed with,” he added.

“Dragon skulls?” Delora glanced over at him, mouth twisted in skepticism.

“Of course,” he smirked. “The Targaryens ruled for over two centuries. The new regime is barely more than a swaddled infant in comparison.”

“Careful not to go spouting that in King’s Landing,” Delora japed darkly, “Or it will be both of our heads.”

His smirk sharpened all the more.

Delora was not impressed with the capitol. The city was filthy and still in the process of recovering from the sack during the last days of the rebellion- a sack that had been carried out by mostly Lannister men. She wasn’t blind to the baleful stares the smallfolk directed at the sight of scarlet shields and banners riding by. But the sight of the Red Keep on Aegon’s Hill did give her pause. She was certain it was smaller than Casterly Rock, but it had far more towers, and gleaming in the summer sunshine it did look impressive. 

Tyrion had told her that Maegor the Cruel had had every man who worked on it killed, lest they spread Targaryen secrets. But there was no trace of Targaryen crimson or black as they rode into outer keep. Baratheon banners flew proudly at every parapet, and she glanced up at them curiously as the party came to a halt and Lord Tywin dismounted easily, for a man near fifty. The king and queen were waiting nearby, smiles on their faces, or so Delora thought, until she realized that no, it was the Kingslayer beside Queen Cersei, his white cloak billowing in the wind, not King Robert. 

The queen was the most beautiful woman Delora had ever seen; graceful and delicate, with high cheekbones, a bright smile, her golden curls piled atop her head and cascading down her back. She searched her good sister for any trace of Tyrion, but only those glittering green eyes were familiar. Cersei was dressed in Lannister red, a lavish gown with embroidered flowers all across the bosom and down the flowing sleeves, with a sash around her small waist. The top of the gown revealed her slender, sun-kissed shoulders. 

“Father, Aunt, Uncle, how good it is to see you again,” she said, dipping into a curtsey, and then her gaze passed over the rest of the visitors, and came to a halt at Tyrion, who sat atop his mount beside Delora. That warm smile turned cold, and her lip curled slightly. “Brother. And this must be your little wife. Mistress Clegane.”

Delora did not look away from her, no matter how uneasy the seething hatred in the young woman’s eyes made her. The look was not as intense when focused on Delora; more cruelly amused than anything else. Delora thought it likely best to keep it that way. Let the queen think her a dull little beggar forced into marriage with a monster. She had no desire to be seen as a threat by the woman, who clearly viewed Tyrion as such, although Delora couldn’t imagine why.

“Lady Delora Lannister, sister,” Tyrion corrected with a smile. 

Delora knew better than to do anything but stare down at her reins, eyes lowered in deference.

“Of course,” the queen said tightly, “lady, now.”

They were shown the airy nursery, where little Prince Joffrey played with wooden lions and stags on the floor, and Princess Myrcella and newborn Prince Tommen slept in their cradles. The children all had the fair Lannister hair, and Joffrey in particular was the picture of his mother. The boy was five and tall for his age, and already throwing a screaming fit, which in turn woke his younger siblings and prompted them to begin to cry, mere minutes later. Delora was of the mind that the boy needed a good swat or two, but she knew better than to voice those opinions. 

As soon as she could do so, she sought out Sandor, and when she caught sight of his scarred face broke into an unlady-like run, the force of her embrace barely daunting him, although it would have made a smaller man stumble. “Lora,” he said in his usual gruff manner, but something approaching a smile crossed her face. Sandor’s ruined smile would have terrified many young maidens, but it had always been a comfort to her. 

“San,” she said with a grin. “Didn’t you get my raven?”

In response, he wrapped a muscled arm around her. She would have liked to spend the rest of the day with her brother, but she was expected to dine with the rest of the Lannisters and the king that night, so they passed the scant hours that remained before dusk talking, albeit mostly on Delora’s part. She wasn’t sure how to convey to Sandor that over the years, her relationship with Tyrion, and other members of his family, had changed- they had gone from captors to friends. She didn’t feel like a Lannister, but she didn’t feel like the same girl she had been, either. 

“He treats you well enough,” her brother commented, as if reading her thoughts. “You seem happy, at least. More happy than you were last.”

“I like him,” she said simply, although she could not deny the heat rising in her cheeks. “He’s good to me when he has no cause to be, and he lets me do as I please- ride and hunt and spar, so long as I’m quiet about it.”

“He’s still the Imp,” Sandor frowned, and she could see the look in his eyes- that she’d been flattered with attention and fine dresses and jewels, and bristled at it.

“He’s my husband,” she said shortly. “And there’s no changing that.”

“You deserved a proper lord,” her brother muttered, “You’re more clever than they think.”

“He thinks I’m clever,” Delora snapped, “And pretty. I don’t even care if it’s all lies, because he’s not saying it to hurt me. He wants me to be happy. Isn’t that enough? To be married to someone who cares?”

Sandor looked at her for a long while without saying anything, and then shook his head. “You’re not a girl anymore. Near a woman grown now.” He paused. “...Mother would be proud.”

Delora frowned. “And Father?”

Her brother stiffened, and then said, “And him.”

Delora leaned over and squeezed his shoulder. “They would be proud of you too, San. You’ve always done your duty.”

“Aye,” he nodded after a moment, bitterly. “We both have.”


	8. Chapter 8

Delora spent nearly half a year with the Lannisters at court, before they finally departed for the westerlands. There was no urgency to the travel, since summer had reached its fourth year, with no signs of stopping. No summer had gone on this long in years, but it pleased both the highborn and lowborn alike, for there was no fear of starvation when the weather was always so mild. 

King’s Landing had been interesting. Delora could safely say that. She had enjoyed some of it; roaming the halls with Tyrion, poking about in the library, riding through the market and down to the harbor. The Kingswood was the most forest she had ever seen, coming from the relatively sparser westerlands. And of course it was the longest amount of time she’d had with Sandor since he’d gone to the capitol to guard Prince Joffrey. But she was more than ready to return… to return home.

The king was a drunken fool with no regard for his wife, children, or anyone else, as far as Delora could tell, and the queen was a vindictive witch who consumed as much wine as her husband consumed ale. Privately, Delora thought them a far worse match than her and Tyrion, for all of his deformity and her low birth. At least they enjoyed spending time together, and were practically overflowing with affection for one another, compared to Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. 

“Jon Arryn has been ruling the realm for years,” Tyrion told her one night, as their departure approached. Delora was yanking a mother of pearl comb through her tangled dark locks, teeth gritted in frustration. “We should all pray the man lives to see one hundred, or the realm will be in dire straits.”

“I don’t understand,” she said flatly, giving up and slamming the comb down on her dressing table perhaps a bit harder than necessary, as her husband smirked. “He was not raised to rule, but he was raised to be lord paramount of the Stormlands. How can he be so…”

“Idiotic? Hapless? Obstinate?” Tyrion suggested.

“He won the throne though blood, not by it,” Delora massaged her scalp with a frown, “You’d think he’d be content enough to sit it now.”

“Not all men were made to rule,” he shrugged. “Especially in times of peace. Robert led the rebellion, and led it well, but he was always a warrior at heart. He might not have been overjoyed at the prospect of taking his father’s seat at Storm’s End, but he would have done it without complaint, especially with that pretty little Stark girl at his side.”

Delora had only ever heard of Lyanna Stark in songs. She’d been half-convinced the girl was just a romantic myth; caught between two men, both vying for her love. It didn’t sound like any reality that Delora knew of. “Is it true, then?” she asked, brow wrinkled. “He’s still in love with a dead girl? It’s been a decade since- and the queen has given him two sons and a daughter.”

She would have assumed a man like Robert Baratheon ought to have been pleased with that; for all her spite and petty nature, Cersei was beautiful and regal, and the children were all healthy enough, although Joffrey was a little terror. Just a month past he’d been found cutting open a pregnant cat, and the king had apparently knocked out a few of his baby teeth in punishment. The queen had been livid. Delora felt sorry for the cat.

Tyrion simply snorted and arched an eyebrow at her last statement, and Delora narrowed her eyes at him. He wasn’t telling her something. “What?” she demanded, but he simply shook his head, as if to say, ‘Not within these walls’. “If you’re not going to talk,” she said impishly, “Then you could at least come kiss me.”

She did not put the pieces together until they were six days out from King’s Landing, and asked him about when they rode off along the river, a ways from the main party, and any ears. “They’re not the king’s children,” she said simply, dismounting from her horse and crouching down at the edge of the water. The sun was hot overhead, and the back of her neck was burning.

“I very much doubt it,” said Tyrion, looking down at her from his own horse as she splashed water on her face. 

“Dark hair usually comes out over light, when you breed the two,” she reasoned. She’d seen it often enough; her family had bred dogs for decades. It would not be unusual for a child of a Baratheon and a Lannister to be fair haired and green eyed, but for all three? Everyone knew the king had a taste for whores of all kinds, but the queen… how would a queen manage to keep an affair a secret?

Tyrion still said nothing, until Delora straightened up. “A Kingsguard, then?”

“One she’s known for quite some time,” he said drolly. “Nearly all her life, I’d say.”

Perhaps Delora should not have been so surprised, but even so, she gaped at him. “The Kingslayer?”

Tyrion’s smile was the one he gave when confronted with an unpleasant but expected truth. “Let it never be said that we Lannisters are not loyal to our own first and foremost.”

“Aye,” retorted Delora, “But you’re not all fucking each other, are you?”

He barked a laugh at that. “Such language. My dear sister would be horrified to hear you speak in such a way.”

“Your dear sister is a bloody idiot,” said Delora, as she clambered back atop her mare. She despised riding side-saddle, but she knew better than to push her luck when in the company of Tywin and Genna Lannister. “All three are Jaime’s? Is she mad? Could she not have at least one with Robert, and spare herself this mess? He’s bound to find out eventually.”

“Even if he suspected, I doubt his first guess would be her own twin,” Tyrion snorted. “But I’ll not disagree with you about her intelligence. A wiser woman would have given Robert his heir and a spare or two, and spent the rest of her days fucking her sweet brother discreetly. Unfortunately, my sister has never been wise nor discreet.” 

“It explains little Joff,” she muttered. “He reminds me of-,” she hesitated, and then swallowed back the bile rising in her throat. “No matter. But he’s not fit to be king. That’s obvious enough.”

“I imagine Cersei intends to guide his every edict with her loving, careful touch for politics,” Tyrion japed, but then shook his head. “There’s little to be done about it, but ensure it is never uncovered. You know I have no love for my sister, but Jaime and the children…”

Delora understood. Should Robert find out, he’d kill them all, and the rest of the Lannisters would suffer as much for his ruined pride. A man like that, cuckolded by his own wife? It was unthinkable, unspeakable. And so it could never be spoken. Still, they had only just started to trot back towards the rest of the party when she doubled over and retched.

She vomited the previous morning as well, but she had assumed it was due to some bad meat. Her ears were ringing a bit and her face was flushed. Tyrion made some jest about the whole thing having turned her stomach, but she could hear the concern in his tone. When she said nothing, wiping at her mouth, he asked, almost hesitantly, “Have you felt ill as of late, Lora?”

Maester Creylen confirmed it when they arrived back at Casterly Rock, and while Delora was taken aback, Tyrion looked as though he’d just witnessed a death. He refused to speak about it for the next few days, but hovered around her incessantly, as if concerned she might suddenly collapse. Delora only felt comfortable discussing with Ines, who had been in poor health as of late but was as sharp as ever.

“He’s frightened, child,” she sighed, smiling tiredly at Delora. “Many men are when their wives get with child, particularly men of only nine and ten.”

“I am six and ten,” Delora countered, “Many women become mothers at my age.”

“Yes,” said Ines, “But you were attempting to avoid that.”

Delora flushed. “I just- I had-,”

“Moon tea is only so effective, sweetling,” Ines reached over and took Delora’s hand in her own. “But you are a woman grown now, in the eyes of the law and of the gods. It may be difficult at times, but you’ll be alright. He needs to know that.”

Delora considered herself ill-suited when it came to comfort, and so she blurted out over dinner the next night, “I want this child, even if you don’t.”

Tyrion looked up from his venison, eyes shadowed. “Delora,” he said tiredly, “your habit of making assumptions-,”

“What is so wrong with us having a son or daughter?” she demanded, sawing through her own meat. “I know we had wanted to wait, but- it’s only natural, Tyrion.” 

Truth be told, his doubts were spreading to her, and she hated feeling so trapped and helpless. Of course she wanted the child, but she did not- well, she had never been the most maternal or nurturing. And if he was not even willing to acknowledge it, she didn’t know what to do. It had been bad enough having to receive Dorna and Kevan’s congratulations while Tyrion sulked beside her like a child. She doubted his father would acknowledge his grandchild until they were old enough to walk, if even then.

“I’m aware how children are conceived, Delora,” he snapped. “I am also aware that both our mothers died in the birthing bed.”

She froze. She had not realized it was the thought of her dying that plagued him so. “I have wide hips, and I’ve always been healthy and strong,” she muttered after a few strained moments of silence. “I’ll be alright, Tyrion.”

“But what if you’re not?” he demanded. “What if the babe isn’t? What if it’s too much like me, or too much like your brothers?”

“I’m NOT going to die!” she snarled, and to her disgust, she could feel tears at her eyelashes. She blinked frantically and turned away, but she could see the look on his face out of the corner of her eye. He climbed down from his seat and waddled around the table to her.

“I’m sorry to upset you,” he said, regretfully.

“I’m not upset,” she mumbled, but took his hands in her own all the same, resting them on her lap. “I just- all we can do is wait and see, Tyrion. No woman wants to lose a child, or her life.”

“And no husband wants to lose his wife,” he said, and when she looked up at him she saw something naked and raw on his face and wondered if that might be what love looked like, both grotesque and lovely at the same time. 

“You could never lose me,” Delora promised, with a thin smile. “I’d track you with Tyb and Ger to the ends of the world. They know your scent.”

The pregnancy was difficult. She despised being cooped up inside, and no amount of reading could cure that. The babe kicked constantly, so she was sure it had strong legs. When her time did come, she was nearly a growling beast, pacing between the bed and the window, and had to be practically tied down to the bed in order to start her laboring. 

“Where is Tyrion?” she kept asking breathlessly, between screeches and howls of pain.

“Waiting outside, sweetling,” Ines or Dorna would assure her, and then in her pain she’d forget about him, about everything but wanting this thing inside her out, out, OUT-

She did not have to push for long. Her daughter was eager to make her way out into the world. When Tyrion was finally allowed in Delora felt hot and sweaty and in dire need of a long bath, but the pain and discomfort was lessened by the babe at her breast, big and dark-haired.

“A daughter,” she told him with a small frown. “I was so sure it was a boy.”

“A wild thing, just like you,” he smiled at her, but she could still see the fear in his eyes.

“I’m here,” she told him softly, and glanced down at the babe. “And so is she. We’re not going anywhere, Tyrion.”

“I know,” he said after a moment, and she urged him to climb up onto the bed beside her so he could hold their girl in his arms.

“She certainly has the Clegane look,” he reflected. 

“I hope she’s got at least a bit of the Lannister beauty,” Delora groaned. “I’m like to hit someone if they call her a handsome baby.”

“She’ll need a name,” Tyrion was tracing the babe’s cheek with a finger, as if in shock that she was really there at all. 

“Something Lannister,” Delora agreed. She hesitated. “But all her own. She’ll have to be able to stand on her own two feet, with the Lannister Imp and the Clegane Bitch for a mother.”

She had been born at dusk, but by dawn they’d decided on Tymara, who had her mother’s dark hair, but as it became evident some months later, decidedly green eyes in her round little face.


	9. Chapter 9

Delora was in search of her daughter, a matter made difficult given Tymara’s habit of hiding in difficult to reach places, and complicated by the child of two on her hip. Luckily, Lorand Lannister was a well behaved little boy, and was content to call for his sister with his mother as she paced down the hall. “Mara!” he yelped delightedly, craning his chubby neck around as his mother paused in front of a familiar set of ornate, gold-edged doors. 

“Shh,” Delora shushed the child, and with a small smirk, pushed open the large doors and slipped inside the Rock’s library. From within the stacks, a childish peal of laughter could be heard. “Mara,” Lorand giggled, and Delora hushed him again as she crept around the corner. 

Whereas the elder child of Tyrion and Delora Lannister took after her dark-haired mother, with the exception of her green eyes, Lorand looked every bit the little Lannister lord, having been born with his father’s white blonde hair, which was darkening to an ambered gold by the year, and green eyes just a shade lighter than his sister’s. In truth, Lorand looked a good deal like his elder cousin, Prince Joffrey, had as a child, although Delora was relieved that his lips were not so… wormy.

“What have we here?” Delora demanded as she finally revealed her presence, although there was a knowing look on her husband’s face which implied he’d heard her stealthy approach.

Tymara Lannister was not a particularly quiet child, but she loved nothing more than to sit in her father’s lap as he looked through old tomes, especially since, at six, she would soon be too big to do so. She was quite tall for her age already, and although Delora could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen Sandor truly smile, she was quite certain that her daughter’s was identical.

“She said she was done with her lessons for the day,” Tyrion said mildly, and poked his daughter in the side. She snickered and ducked her head, dark curls falling into her eyes, and when she raised her head again, was biting her lip.

“Then we are raising an accomplished little liar,” Delora sighed, setting Lorand down on the floor. He immediately ran to his father, trying to pry Tymara out of his lap so he could take her place. The siblings were four years apart, and while they squabbled often, Delora was relieved that Tymara was fiercely protective of Lorand and he devoted to her. She’d wanted them to have a bond like hers and Sandor’s, or even like Tyrion and Jaime’s.

“A liar?” Tyrion heaved Tymara out of his lap with a grunt, although he didn’t look nearly as outraged as he sounded. “Young lady, did you knowingly mislead me?”

“Septa can’t teach me anything more than you could,” Tymara wrinkled her nose in defiance, crossing her arms much as her mother did when defensive. 

It brought up a sudden pang for Delora, thinking of Ines, who had passed away when Tymara was just a year old. It had felt as raw to her as losing her father all over again, although at least she’d had the chance to say goodbye. And while the woman had had a hard life, surely it had been better to die in comfort at Casterly Rock than by Gregor’s hands. 

Delora had not seen her eldest brother in years, aside from on the field at tourneys. She was determined to never let him so much as lay eyes on her children. Gregor had always wanted to take things from her, from everyone. If he ever became a threat to Tymara or Lorand… no armor or sword could save him from what she, Tyrion, or even Sandor would do in defense of them. Neither of the children were even aware that the notorious Mountain was their uncle, although they knew their mother had been a Clegane like him. Delora intended to keep it that way. Sandor and, as much as she disliked the man, Jaime, were the only uncles they needed.

“Is that so?” she asked her daughter now, arching an eyebrow. “I was not aware your father had picked up needlework or the harp in his spare time.”

“Now wife,” Tyrion said with a bit of a sly note, “I am sure if I put my mind to it-”

“Needlework is stupid,” Tymara declared, “and Septa says I’m awful with the harp!” She narrowed her eyes at Delora. “Mother, you never do any embroidery.”

“That’s because I had other chores when I was your age,” Delora said sharply. “I had to make my own bed, and dress myself, and gather eggs and feed the animals, and sometimes help the cook. Other little girls spend all day in the fields. You are very lucky to have servants to do all these things for you.” 

Her children had been born into the wealthiest family in the realm, but Delora had no intention of raising spoiled brats. Cersei was doing a fine enough job of that with her own three. Tymara and Lorand were often ignored, although Delora was keenly aware that were Tywin Lannister not determined to see the Kingslayer inherit his seat, Lorand would be the heir presumptive to Casterly Rock and the westerlands, after his father. Still, they would have a much more privileged upbringing than her, and she was determined that they not waste it.

Tymara looked properly rebuked, but was still dragging her feet and pouting. Delora sympathized, but not much. “You’ve only an hour left, and then you may do what you please for the rest of the day,” she told her daughter. “And you shall have a break when your cousins arrive- they should be here on the morrow.”

Tymara brightened. “Are my uncles coming?”

“Unfortunately,” said Tyrion dryly. He picked up Lorand, and struggling in vain to stop him from getting his sticky palms all over the book before him. Satisfied with that, Tymara scampered off, and Delora clamped down on the urge to tell her to walk. How many times had she darted down corridors and raced up and down stairs, when she was Tymara’s age? But her daughter was a far happier, innocent child than Delora had ever been. 

And to raise someone so oblivious to the evils and cruelties of the world… it seemed almost like a gift. Tymara had no concept of the idea that her mother had not chosen to wed her father, or that Delora had been made a wife when she was only several years older than Tymara herself. As far as her daughter knew, her parents had always loved one another, and always would. Delora wanted that for her children. She wanted them to believe in silly stories of chivalry and true love and gallant knights and fair ladies. She wanted them to have a kinder, softer life than she or their father had endured.

“Willful,” Tyrion said drolly, “would be one word for her.”

“Had I ever spoken that way when I was her age, I’d have been beaten black and blue,” Delora frowned.

“You are only two and twenty,” her husband teased. “And just as insolent as you were at two and ten.”

“She’ll be a little terror by two and ten,” she sighed, and reached over to ruffle Lorand’s curls. “Not like this sweet one.”

The toddler responded by snapping at her fingers, laughing.

“Yes, a sweet little lion cub,” Tyrion snorted. “She’s all roar, he’s all bite. Still, she gets on well with Cella and little Tommen.”

“And the last time the queen visited, she nearly came to blows with Joffrey,” Delora countered. “I don’t want her around him. He’s used to doing whatever he likes, and she’s used to saying just what she pleases.”

“Mayhaps he’s matured, now that he’s a man grown,” Tyrion said dryly.

“A man of ten and two. They’ll be betrothing him to some poor girl soon enough.“ 

Delora thought that if Cersei had anything to do with it, it would be to some Lannister cousin. Cerenna or Myrielle or little Rosamund, perhaps. It was fortunate that Tymara would be considered unworthy of a prince, for Delora would have thought tooth and nail to keep her daughter away from a boy like Joffrey. He might not have Gregor’s strength, but he was just as vicious.

Sure enough, by midday of the next day there were horns sounding as the queen’s party approached. King Robert had little interest in visiting his wife’s family and so Delora was not at all surprised at his absence as the riders rode through Casterly Rock’s gates, not a stag in sight. The Kingslayer made a splendid sight as he helped his sister down from her lavish wheelhouse. Cersei shone in Lannister scarlet, the cut of the dress revealing the swell of her breasts, and adorned with a slim gold chain around her waist. It bared much of her slim arms as well, given the summer heat, and swayed around her body as she greeted her father. The children were not far behind. Joffrey was taller than Delora remembered, and Myrcella as well, but little Tommen was as plump and smiley as ever. 

Delora was dressed in her finest, a gown of pale gold with sleeves of Myrish lace. She still did not like herself in red, and preferred shades of gold, yellow, and brown if at all necessary. She also preferred for the cuts of her gowns to be modest and practical, but when the royal household was visiting, she was capable of dressing the part of the wife of one of Tywin Lannister’s sons, no matter how far in the back of the crowd they might be. 

The visit went much the same as all the others ever had; there was a feast held the first night, where Delora kept her head down at the high table and played the part of Tyrion’s dull, barely more than common wife, only speaking when addressed directly. She did not mind; it was a small price to pay for a peaceful dinner, and it was far easier to simply let Cersei and Jaime command the conversation. 

The queen was in her element when her husband was absent, and Delora was not so unfeeling as to not feel some empathy for the woman, who was clearly miserable in her marriage. She was a fool to still be carrying on with Jaime after all these years, but Delora supposed wild, passionate love did that to you. She had never experienced it; while she and Tyrion were still very attracted to one another, what love they had had been built up slowly over the years, perhaps culminating with the birth of Lorand, the son Tyrion had never thought to have.

The children ate below, aside from Lorand who was still young enough to take his meals in the nursery, and Joffrey, who was allowed to sit with the adults now that he was, after all, only a few years away from being a man. His attitude had not changed in the past year, and Delora was not surprised. Cersei had no concept of discipline, and Robert was usually too drunk to dole any out himself. The boy was a product of his environment, although perhaps some of his meanness was innate, an effect of the twisted union that had brought him into this world.

Delora was not so naive to think that Cersei and Jaime were the first siblings to fuck one another; the Targaryens had done it for centuries, after all, but they were perhaps the first to do so while cuckolding a king and passing their offspring off as Baratheons. But if Robert suspected nothing yet, Delora very much doubted that he ever would. With the way the man drank and ate and whored, he’d be dead before his fortieth name day, and Joffrey would ascend the throne, likely as even worse a king than his father, and without a fertile summer to cushion his reign. 

These ten years, after all, had been kind. But Delora had long ago taught herself to always expect the worst, and if summer could last a decade, then so could winter. And winter, combined with a bad king… She looked down on Tymara, laughing with Cella and Tom at some childish jape, cheeks flushed and curls pinned back with a small, glittering lion’s head.

A sweet little summer girl, freckled and wild. By the end of winter, whenever it came, she’d be a woman grown, mayhaps wed with children of her own. It put an end to Delora’s appetite. She wanted to freeze time and keep everything as it was. But Tymara would grow and flower and Lorand would swing a sword and it would all begin again.

A mere week into the visit, a raven came from King’s Landing bearing news of Jon Arryn’s death. Delora felt the hairs on the back of her neck and arms stand up when Tyrion told her, although she did not know why at the time. “We’ll be accompanying my sister and the children back to King’s Landing,” he said with a curious look she could not quite place, “and from there, onto Winterfell, I expect.”

“Winterfell?” Delora questioned. 

“I imagine Robert will want a Stark to take Arryn’s place,” Tyrion shrugged, “more specifically, the Stark he loves best, dear old Ned.”

“I had always wanted to see the North,” Delora said after a moment, sitting down on their bed slowly, but it was half a lie. Casterly Rock had been her prison, then her home, and it was all her children knew. She was loathe to take them out from behind its impenetrable walls. The rest of the world was not nearly as reassuring.

Tyrion squeezed her hand. “It will be a rather dull trip, but the children will enjoy the travel, at the very least.”

Delora hoped for dull, but she did not quite believe him.


	10. Chapter 10

Delora could have killed Tyrion for almost immediately vanishing in the aftermath of the customary greetings and introductions between the Stark household and the royal party. No sooner had Robert disappeared down into the crypts with Ned Stark to mourn his dead betrothed for the thousandth time, then suddenly she found herself faced with an irate Cersei and wary looking Catelyn Stark. 

She assumed Tyrion had gone to inspect the massive castle that was Winterfell for himself, but really now. She was the one with a queen, a great lady, and two small children to contend with. It was easy enough for him to avoid all the small talk; he was the Imp. He might be married and a father of two, but no one expected him to display much in the way of manners, although he was certainly more refined than her. 

“Lady Catelyn,” she curtsied, and gave Tymara a sharp look that made her do the same, adjusting Lorand in her arms. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Catelyn Stark’s smile was welcoming enough, although she was clearly uncertain of Delora’s identity. Delora couldn’t blame her. News that Tyrion Lannister had a wife and two completely normal children must be hard to believe. “Then you must be-,”

“My brother’s wife,” Cersei said, before she could complete the statement. “Mistress Delora Clegane.” The emphasis on both ‘Mistress’ and ‘Clegane’ was lost on no one. Delora was unaffected by it. It wasn’t as if it were lies. She didn’t expect to be taken into Catelyn Stark’s confidence as a fellow great lady might. 

Delora watched Catelyn’s blue-eyed gaze flicker briefly to Sandor, who had removed his menacing helm to reveal his face. She seemed to be having a difficult time reconciling the fearsome, scarred guard and the tall, plain-faced young woman in front of her, dressed simply but finely in winter furs.

“Well,” Catelyn said graciously, whatever her opinion on the matter was, “I am sure Rickon will appreciate a playmate close to his own age.” She smiled at Lorand, who, tired and sullen from a morning of hard riding, as Delora did not dare infringe on the queen’s wheelhouse, buried his face in his mother’s hair. 

The Stark children were all polite enough, and Delora was surprised Catelyn Stark had kept her good looks after five pregnancies. But the heir, Robb, seemed like a good boy, if a bit naive, and Tymara would likely get on well with the stubborn younger girl, Arya, and the middle boy, Bran. Little Rickon would probably have Lorand running ragged trying to keep up with him. 

The eldest girl, Sansa, seemed a bit delicate compared to the rest of the family, and Delora would be surprised if they left without a betrothal between her and Joffrey. Robert was likely desperate to avoid Tywin Lannister forcing a cousin down the boy’s throat. She’d have to give the girl warning about him, if possible without Cersei getting wind of it. No one deserved to walk into a marriage blind, as she had, especially not a girl like that, dreamy and likely already half in love with the idea of being a princess and perhaps someday a queen. 

Then there was the bastard, who she only caught a brief glimpse of. He looked the most like his father, of all Ned Stark’s children. The rest favored their mother, with the exception of Arya. He was a lean, handsome boy, but Delora had rarely seen eyes that cold on a face so young. Perhaps that was a bastard’s lot, to grow up far swifter than his trueborn siblings. She resolved to keep an eye on him; bastards were always unpredictable, especially the ones whose father’s were great lords.

For the time being, she followed Catelyn Stark to their rooms. Her children were hungry, Cersei was in a foul mood already, and she desperately wanted a proper bath. She was not disappointed by their quarters, and was relieved that she and Tyrion had been allotted a bedchamber of their own, with two trundle beds set up for the children by the hearth. 

The queen and the Kingslayer were already murmuring to one another down the corridor when Delora shut the door with a quiet groan, and then paused and pressed her hand to the stone wall. To her shock, the stone was warm. 

“They’re heated,” she muttered. Tyrion would be thrilled with that. He had never been north before either, and was likely determined to read through as much of Winterfell’s library as possible during the duration of their stay. He also had half a mind to see the Wall, which Delora was against, as she and the children would not be able to accompany him. 

That said, if Catelyn Stark was amenable, perhaps staying on at Winterfell after the rest of the party had left to wait for Tyrion would not be so bad. It would be a welcome break from the melodrama of the king, queen, and Lannisters, and they could travel back to the capitol at their own pace. 

She turned to find Tymara and Lorand jumping on the featherbed, and chuckled for a moment before ordering them off it and going to find a maid to draw their baths. The children shared a tub while she took the other, scrubbing furiously at her face and neck while Tymara soaped up her curls and Lorand splashed about like a limp fish. 

Tyrion finally found his way into the room as she was wrestling Lorand back into fresh clothes and Tymara was trying to comb her own hair. In penitence, he took over the combing, and Delora cast a sidelong glance in his direction before asking dryly, “And how did you find our lodgings?”

“Adequate,” he said, “mostly due to the ingenious piping in the walls. They built the castle directly over hot springs. They’ve even a heated glass garden. It’s how they get through the winter.”

“There’s a certain harsh beauty to it,” Delora reasoned, finally releasing a whining Lorand, “but is must be hellish in the winter.” The snows would likely make travel impossible, and while the castle was big, when the nights were long and food was scarce… She was glad they would be well on their way south before winter came. 

“Then thank the gods we’re seeing it in all its summertime beauty,” japed Tyrion, working through the last of Tymara’s tangles. She immediately shot up and made for the door, until Delora called her back.

“And where are you going?” she questioned.

“To play,” said Tymara defiantly, and then added, “Brandon said he would show me all the best places.”

“His mother says he climbs. I want your feet on the ground at all times,” Delora said sharply, narrowing her eyes at her daughter. The last thing she needed to worry about was seeing Tymara dangling from some parapet because she was trying to prove how brave she was. “Do you hear me, Tymara?”

The little girl was dangerously silent for a moment before Tyrion said sternly, “Tymara,” and she nodded. 

“Make sure you’re back in time to dress for the feast tonight,” Delora added, but her daughter was already halfway out the door. 

“That Bran seems like a sweet child. Less cosseted than Tommen, but good-hearted,” Tyrion shrugged when she turned back to him. “She’ll be alright.”

“Very well, you can broker their betrothal,” Delora sniped, but snorted a laugh. “At least she makes friends quickly.”

“She has her father’s charm,” he smirked. Were it not for Lorand bouncing on the bed again, she might have kissed his smirk away.

They were seated at the head table during the welcoming feast, but Delora thought it best to keep her conversation to the children. Catelyn Stark was trying to exchange pleasantries with Cersei, somewhat in vain, as the queen’s distaste for the whole event was obvious, and the king was regaling Lord Stark with some hunting tale. Tyrion was talking to his brother. Young Robb was snickering about something with Theon Greyjoy, the Stark’s ward, who had to be at least twenty. Delora felt for the boy, having been a well-treated prisoner for the past ten years, but there was a spiteful edge to his sniggers. 

Sansa was speaking to Myrcella, and that left Delora with Bran, Tymara, and Rickon, who was tearing into his meat with the voracity of a wild animal. The direwolves’ presence had not gone unnoticed by Delora either, although they were only the size of dogs at the moment. It made her miss Tyb and Ger. When they eventually returned to Casterly Rock, she was determined to pick out two new hounds from the latest litter, one for each of the children. They might be Lannisters, but there was still Clegane enough in them to appreciate a well-trained dog. 

Wolves, on the other hand, were far less predictable. 

“Mine is named Nymeria,” Arya told her proudly. She was an awkward looking little thing, with features too strong for her childish face, but Delora thought it likely she’d grown into a striking young woman. The solemn grey eyes, at least, were quite pretty.

“After the Rhoynar queen,” Delora smiled. “Do you enjoy that story, Lady Arya?”

“The what?” Tymara demanded, and Arya launched into an impassioned explanation of Queen Nymeria and her struggles.

Bran was staring at her, and she glanced back at him. He was a cheerful little boy, but his blue eyes were disconcertingly large in his face, and paler than his mother’s. “Is is true the Hound is your brother?” he blurted out.

“Yes,” said Delora honestly, and then added with a hint of slyness, “can you not see the family resemblance, my lord?”

Bran frowned, but then nodded seriously and said, “You’re very tall for a woman.”

“That I am,” she shrugged, and added, “your mother is rather tall as well. I’m sure you will be even taller, though.”

“I’m going to be a knight,” he said earnestly. “And win tourneys.”

Delora didn’t think there were many tourneys this far north. Knights prayed to the Seven, after all, and the people here worshipped the old gods. Faces in trees with blood red leaves. It was enough to make even a cynic like her a bit uneasy. She’d been in godswoods before, but she did not dare set foot in the one at Winterfell. There were old, dead things in there, things she had no business poking about at. She was no devoted follower of the Seven, but the Cleganes were descended from the Andals, not the First Men.

“You’ll have to become a squire,” she told young Bran, “and that will mean leaving your home and family, leaving the North, even.”

He looked a bit taken aback at that, but then nodded resolutely. “I know. I’m ready; I’m almost a man grown. I’ll be eight in three months.”

Delora nodded to indicate the maturity of such an age, and said, “I was only a little older than you when I left my home.”

He glanced down at his food, then back at up at her. “Were you scared?”

“Very,” she said, “I cried and cried at first. The only person I knew was my brother, and he looked out for me. That’s what good big brothers do.”

“I’m a good big brother,” Bran said, wrinkling his nose, “but Rickon never listens.”

“I didn’t always listen to my brother either,” Delora grinned. She took a sip of her wine as the young Stark considered this, and then asked, “Did you ever go back home?”

That gave her pause. She thought of the crumbling keep and her small bedroom and Father’s rough hand in hers, and Ines humming to her while she was ill. And Gregor, who could crack a table with one blow from a great fist. And of the dogs, howling in their kennel. And of riders in the night, snow flurrying around a little sept.

“No,” she said, “no, I never did go back home. I don’t know that I ever will. But that’s alright. I have a new home now, with my family.”

“Mother,” Tymara interrupted her, “may I have a direwolf pup?”


	11. Chapter 11

Delora was relieved when Tyrion finally came into the dining hall of the guest quarters to break his fast. He’d crept out of bed in the early hours of the morning, likely off to the library, and while his place in their bed had quickly been replaced by both their children, complaining of cold feet, she had not enjoyed the prospect of dining with his siblings alone. 

Jaime had always been amiable towards her, but dealing with the Kingslayer and his japes and smirks alone was one thing. Both Lannister twins at once was a bit much, even for her, and they had been acting oddly all week, ever since Bran’s fall.

Her first reaction upon hearing from several panicked servants that little Lord Brandon had fallen while climbing a tower was not concern for the boy but a paralyzing fear for her own daughter, for there would have been a good chance that Tymara had been with him. She and Tyrion had immediately separated to search for their daughter, and Delora, although not usually one to give into her emotions, had almost wept with relief when she found Tymara perfectly unharmed in the godwood.

Of course, her daughter was very upset by her friend’s fall, and instead of crying as Tommen and Myrcella had been, had been angry and sullen all week, to the point where Delora was considering putting the girl over her knee, even if six was a bit old for a spanking. 

She understood Tymara’s feelings- the boy’s back had been broken, and he would never walk again, if he ever woke up. Truth be told, she had hoped Bran would pass quickly, which would surely be a mercy compared to slowly wasting away while his parents were unable to properly grieve the loss of him. But the boy still lived.

Now she sat across from the queen and the Kingslayer and their children, while Tymara picked at her bacon. Delora nudged her daughter when her father entered the room, and she momentarily brightened as he took a seat in between her and Delora, who was trying to make sure most of Lorand’s sweet bread made it into his mouth, and not down his shirt. “Is Robert still abed?” Tyrion questioned.

Cersei’s green eyes narrowed. “The king has not slept at all. He is with Lord Eddard. He has taken their sorrow deeply to heart.”

Robert’s flaws were numerous, but to his credit, however little it might be, he had seemed genuinely begrieved at the Starks’ misfortune. Delora was sympathetic; Bran was a sweet, brave little boy, who did not deserve what had happened, but children did suffer and die. Not just in the North, but all over the realms. 

Had it been her child, to take a fall like that, and knowing they would be crippled for life if they lived and perhaps unable to even feed or relieve themselves… She was not sure that she would not have given them some milk of poppy and let them go. Delora would do anything for her children, but a fate such as that…

“He has a large heart, our Robert,” Jaime was smiling, and Delora averted her gaze to her meal so as not to be seen glowering at the queen’s brother and lover. Men like Jaime could afford to jape and jest and smile, because they had always been shielded from the consequences of life. In Jaime’s case, shielded by the wealth and power of his house, shielded by his position. She didn’t hate the man, but she thought him far too old to still be playing the foolish boy, blinded by love and utterly convinced of his own invincibility. 

“Is Bran any better, Father?” Tymara asked suddenly, looking at Tyrion intently. Myrcella and Tommen also leaned in a little. Delora sometimes marveled that they could be such genuinely kind and gentle children, given their parents, but perhaps all the venom and rage and sickness in Cersei and Jaime’s relationship had been used up with Joffrey instead.

Tyrion gave Tymara a kind smile. “His condition is the same, sweetling. The maester has some hope because of that.”

“I don’t want Bran to die,” Tommen spoke up, a slight tremble in his voice, as if he might begin crying anew.

“He’s not going to die,” Tymara retorted fiercely, and Delora gave her a stern look to silence her before Cersei got it into her head that her son was being disrespected by his cousin. Delora had never attempted to stop Tymara from playing with Tom or Cella, but she was always wary, always watching when the queen was around. 

Cersei did not consider Tymara or Lorand her niece or nephew any more than she considered Delora her good sister, and Delora did not want to risk inviting her anger towards the children if they overstepped what she saw as the clear line of distinction between the cousins. Cersei’s children were, ostenibly, the children of a king and queen. Delora’s children were, by all rights, the children of a dwarf and a kennel master’s granddaughter. 

Delora sometimes took some spiteful satisfaction in the thought that although that might be true, her children were still certainly trueborn, as opposed to the queen’s. 

Fortunately, Cersei had been distracted by Tyrion, who was even now saying that Bran might live, according to the maester.

Myrcella and Tommen smiled in delight, and Tymara looked hopeful. But Delora saw something else skitter across the faces of Cersei and Jaime, and knew her husband had likely seen it too. Then Cersei looked away, as if saddened. “That is no mercy. These northern gods are cruel to let the child linger in such pain.”

Delora would have almost agreed with her, had she not begun to suspect Cersei had good reason to wish the boy dead. It would certainly explain her and Jaime’s behavior in the wake of Bran’s fall. A deft, adventurous boy like him… it was possible he had seen something he should not have, poking about Winterfell’s abandoned areas. 

“What were the maester’s words?” Jaime was pressing Tyrion. 

Delora studied him. Did the Kingslayer have it in him to hurt a child, if he’d seen what she now thought Bran had saw? She decided almost immediately that yes, he did. Jaime barely had any attachment to his own children, although they had been raised to only see him as an uncle. He might never want any harm to befall Joff or Cella or Tom, but a boy like Bran, who was not his kin, and furthermore, could bring about all their deaths… 

After the meal, when Cersei had taken her children and left, with Jaime not far behind, Delora exchanged a glance with Tyrion and they silently took to their chamber, leaving Tymara and Lorand to play. As soon as Delora had made sure the door was securely shut and locked behind them, she folded her arms across her chest and murmured, “Do you think they could have done it?”

Tyrion simply looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. “The question is, would they have? There’s little I do not believe Cersei capable of, and when Cersei is involved, what little judgment my brother possess disappears entirely.”

“If they believed him to have witnessed them fucking, then yes,” Delora said flatly. “Cersei would do anything to protect her children, and Jaime would do anything to keep her. His mistake was in assuming the fall would immediately kill Bran, then.”

“If the boy wakes, and remembers what he may or may not have seen…” Tyrion trailed off.

“Or he might yet die in his sleep,” Delora countered. She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Your damned siblings… it will be all our heads if this comes out.”

“Then we ought to return to the westerlands immediately,” Tyrion said sharply. “I won’t have you or the children at risk here-,”

“The Starks would never violate guest rights,” Delora argued. “They are Northron to the bone.”

“If it was our child?” he demanded.

She sighed. “If it was our child, we’d kill them all.”

“Exactly.”

“But it will look far worse for us to all scurry off as soon as the royal party leaves,” Delora said after a moment. “No. You should go ahead with your plans to journey to the Wall, and the children and I will remain here. The rest of them will be gone. Even if Brandon awakens, and makes an accusation, what can Catelyn Stark do, with no proof beyond the boy’s claims? She would not dare touch a hair on mine or the children’s heads.”

“She could hold you all here as hostages and demand Jaime return,” Tyrion retorted.

Delora snorted. “She’s never seen your brother so much as look at me. I’m his good sister, not his flesh and blood, and a lowborn one at that. There’s no guarantee that he would come racing back at a threat to me or the children. No. If it does happen, and he remembers, best I be here, to speak in our defense, if not your siblings’. She will not make a move unless she has absolute proof that Bran was pushed, and his word could easily be dismissed as a child’s sickbed hallucinations.”

Tyrion was silent for a few moments, considering this. “If you believe yourself to be in danger,” he said, “you must get a raven to the Wall, and do whatever it takes to keep the children safe. Lie, condemn my sister and brother as lechers and monsters, whatever is necessary to spare yourself.”

“Catelyn Stark is not the sort to want innocent blood on her hands,” Delora pointed out.

“If she thinks my brother attempted to murder her precious little son, there is no telling what she may do in her fury,” Tyrion said darkly. “But you may have the right of it. I have already made my plans known, and it would draw more suspicion to suddenly change them now. And even if the boy does wake up, there is no telling what his mind will be like, if he can even speak.”

Delora nodded and then approached, dropping down into a chair to embrace her husband, her chin resting on his shoulder. “It will be alright, Tyrion. If I could survive the lion’s den, I do not think the wolves will trouble me much.”

He laughed a little at that.

She wanted to see Sandor privately before the royal took their leave. There was no telling when they would see one another again, and she regretted not having been able to spend more time with him during their stay at Winterfell. 

But Sandor’s duties dictated that he spend nearly every waking moment in Joffrey’s company, and Delora was not one to expose herself to the boy’s bile unless she had no choice in the matter. It was no secret that the crown prince referred to her quite gaily as “My imp uncle’s bitch”, and that usually invited violence from Tyrion and in return, Cersei’s rage.

“Take care of yourself,” she told him as she stood in his small quarters, watching him pack. It seemed like centuries ago that she had been saying similar things, watching him prepare to leave for King’s Landing. She had been just a child then, blind to so many things, although she had not known it at the time. And he had been little more than a boy, despite his fierceness. 

“Aye,” he said gruffly, “and you- be careful, Lora. Mind the children around these Starks and their bloody monsters.”

“Tymara is rather taken with the direwolves,” she smiled dryly.

“Mara is a fool of a girl with more guts than good sense,” he scoffed, then looked at her with something near a terrible grin. “She reminds me of someone I know.”

Delora rolled her eyes. “Very funny, brother. Tymara and Lorand will miss you dearly. Almost as much as me.”

She took a step towards him to embrace him in goodbye, but he was looking past her to the doorway, and she turned to see Tymara standing there, picking at a loose thread in her skirt.

“Have you come to say goodbye to your uncle, then?” Delora asked her, but Tymara shook her head jerkily. The look on her face was odd, almost frightened, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have. But Delora had never seen her daughter look quite like this before.

She glanced at Sandor and squeezed his hard muscled arm for a moment before swiftly following the child out into the hall and down the corridor to an alcove. “Tymara, what’s wrong?” she demanded. “Are you hurt?”

“Mother, I-,” Tymara paused and chewed her lower lip, then hissed, “I have to tell you something, Mother.”

Delora crouched down in front of her, taking the little girl into her arms. “You can tell me anything, you know that, don’t you? I know we’ve been cross with one another, but-,”

She was entirely unprepared for her daughter to lean into her embrace, and whisper in her ear, “I saw Bran fall, Mother, but it- but he didn’t-,”

Delora felt her heart drop into her stomach, and pulled back to stare Tymara directly in her frightened green eyes. “Tymara,” she said as calmly as she could, “tell me exactly what happened.”

“He wanted to climb it to see the ravens but I- I was too scared,” Tymara admitted, flushing red, “so he left me on the ground and I was going to go inside the tower and meet him at the top, but I- I heard voices so I ran back out, and then I saw Bran at a window and-,” she stopped, and her mouth clamped shut like a trap.

“And what?” Delora pressed, voice hard.

“And it was Uncle Jaime who was talking to him, I heard- and then he pushed him,” Tymara said tearfully, “and I ran away when I saw Bran fall.”

**Author's Note:**

> I intend to come back to this work at some point, but for now, I'm marking it as completed, since I hit the major story points that I originally wanted to- my hope was to make it to AGoT, timeline-wise, and I have.


End file.
